Fugazi
by Bravo Foxtrot
Summary: Glory, Glory, what a hell of a way to die. AU WWII Slashfic. Cowritten by Hilby and Falco Conlon
1. Prologue

**FUGAZI - Fucked Up, Got Ambushed, Zipped In**

Smoke drifted around his fingers and he enjoyed the burn of ash as it fell onto his exposed arm. Spot Conlon was like that. He was known to be fond of pain, but only from time to time. The iron railing dug into the bone of his forearm and he turned his head to look sideways at his companion. Racetrack struck a similar pose, his back a little more rigid, the line of his mouth a little more stern. The gentle rocking of the troop ship was easing Spot's stomach as much as it was upsetting those of other more unfortunate soldiers, and he was content to watch his friend as they drifted farther out into New York Harbor. Race was watching the Statue of Liberty go by, but Spot was otherwise occupied.

"Europe, huh?" Race said before pulling a long drag off of his cigarette. "You know who's in Europe?"

"Hitler?" Spot asked. Race shoved him and Spot snorted, sticking his own cigarette back between his lips and letting it hang there.

"No, asshole, Montenegro. Remember him? Fifth grade, kind of a dick."

"Yeah, I remember." Spot straightened and scraped his hand through his hair, shaved into a Mohawk for _esprit de corps_. "I thought he was in the Pacific. Wasn't he a marine?"

"No. Paratrooper. He jumped on D-day."

Spot was quiet for a long time after this, remembering the picture on the front cover of Life magazine. The face of the soldier crawling through the waves had been distorted, shaky. He and Race had been at the training camp when American, British and Canadian forces stormed the beaches at Normandy. They'd talked about how badly they wished they could have been there, but now Spot wasn't so sure. The man in that picture, rifle in hand and surrounded by flotsam, hadn't looked human.

The deck of the ship was packed with still-waving soldiers. They annoyed Spot...but then again, most things annoyed Spot. It was something Race was actually quite fond of. Spot spent most of his time being cranky; it made Race smile. That too annoyed Spot.

"What're you thinkin' about?" Race asked, straightening as well and flicking the butt of his cigarette over the side of the boat.

"Normandy," Spot said, not really wanting to explain more than that. He was fairly sure Race would get it anyway. He was like that.

"Yeah." Race nodded once and scratched a spot under his chin. "I was thinkin' about that last night. Fucked up."

They didn't talk after that, not until they went down below with the rest of the soldiers and started up a rousing game of cards. Instead they stood and watched as everything they'd ever known faded beyond view. Neither knew whether they should be scared or excited or even sad; neither was really willing to talk about it. Instead they concentrated on the thrum of the ship's engines; rhythmic, thundering vibrations they could feel through the deck. They thought about how to unload, clean and reload their M1 rifles. They thought about how to dig a foxhole and how to strap on their parachutes. Army training came in handy when one was too anxious to think about the mess they were about to land in.

The sun was hot on the top of their heads even though the wind coming off the water was chilly. Across the Atlantic it wasn't just their company who was waiting for them. Germans were waiting for them, bullets were waiting for them, tank rounds were waiting for them... but the boys didn't think about that as they each started another cigarette. The imminence of their mortality had yet to dawn on them. It was hard to think about death when death had never come near before. It was a distant concept; one that they weren't even sure was real. Sure, they had known people who had died, but they couldn't die, could they? They were too young and brave. Death happened to the elderly and the unfortunate few who had drawn the short straw.

Spot thought about the picture his had mother slipped into his pocket before hugging him goodbye. He hadn't discovered it until his fourth day of training at Camp Toccoa, Georgia. Spot and his little sister sat on the front steps of their building, his mother and father standing behind them. His knees were on his elbows and a reluctant grin was on his face. He'd had much better things to do when they'd asked him to sit for that picture. It was taken almost a year before he'd joined. He pressed his hand over where the picture now rested, in the breast pocket of his fatigues, but didn't hold the gesture. There were many things he was willing to share with Racetrack Higgins, but the fact that he already missed his family was not one of them.

A group of four or five men from their company at Toccoa passed behind them; one slapped Racetrack on the shoulder, a gesture of invitation. Spot and Race glanced at each other before pushing off the railing and turning to join their friends. They would go below decks and gamble. The sun would set. The troop ship would cross the Atlantic and then they would be in Europe. Then they would be at war.


	2. Chapter One

IT WAS A DITCH, stretched like a great gaping wound in the earth's surface for a few hundred feet, the road rising up above it in swathes of seed-tipped grass. There were three trees that Pvt. Higgins could make out as such, trunks and branches completely obliterated in the crossfire. Cold autumn winds whistled through unnatural orifices in the blackened bark, more Swiss cheese than Dutch hardwood. Somewhere off in the distance rose plumes of black smoke, buildings both beautiful and devastated rising against it in shades of white and brown. There was Spot ahead of him, off a few hundred feet, ducking into the small gulch with a thud too loud for comfort. Race picked up his pace and dove in behind him, followed not long after by the rest of the squad, what should have been some eleven men.

"Spot," he whispered, groping for his best friend's arm, "the hell's it so quiet for?"

"Don't ask me," Spot snapped, rolling his eyes. "Go ask Pinhead over there, maybe he can help you."

"Stop being a prick, I'm being serious here," Race sighed. "'ay, Pie, what's the deal?"

"With what?"

"Any word on Winters?"

"Hell if I know," Pie replied, pulling a can of German-issue tinned meat from a pocket. "Lemme borrow your knife, kid."

"No way," Race snapped. "We're sitting out here like beached fish and all you can think about is kraut Spam?"

"I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry."

"Shut up, you two, I got a headache," Spot punched Race in the arm. "Hey, Todd, ask Sarge if he knows where the hell our company is."

Todd, a sallow-faced sprout with dull brown eyes and a hairy upper lip, crawled along the muddy trench wall to poke the back of Sergeant Garza. Spot let out a frustrated sigh and pressed the lip of his helmet to the earth, digging into it, creating a new, miniature trench to press into. He glowered at Race from the side of his gaze.

"First day deployed and we've already fucked up."

"We did no such thing," Race sighed, glancing around to see if anyone in the trench appeared wounded. Patterson was sucking at a bloodied thumb, but Patterson was always nursing something. He'd be fine. Kilkenny and Masterson were missing, perhaps—probably stuck in a tree somewhere.

"How do you figure?"

"Well, we didn't issue the orders for our coordinates, did we?"

Spot blinked at him a moment before shrugging noncommittally. "Maybe we should've. Bet we wouldn't be stuck here otherwise."

"This's obviously been used already," Earbearteon said from down the line, voice barely above a whisper. He was automatically hushed.

Race was hit by a wave of nausea at the thought. "You don't think this was—you don't think—"

"There's blood in here," somebody else murmured nervously. Must've been Grayson.

"Oh, fuck! Seriously? —oh no, that's definitely blood!" No, that was Grayson; the first one must've been O'Dell. That was a bad sign…O'Dell never lost his cool enough to get quivery over blood.

"Of course it's blood!" Spot snarled from beside him. "We're in Europe, you pussy! What did you expect, a greeting card?"

"Private Conlon, that's enough!" Garza commanded softly, appearing as if out of nowhere beside him. "That's not important now. They're supposed to be here."

"Supposed to be where? Who?" demanded Patterson, extracting his injured thumb from his mouth. It was still bleeding; perhaps Race really should look at it…

"Our company, Patts," Race rolled his eyes. "Lemme see that thumb."

"What do you mean, supposed to be here?" Spot hissed, jerking his helmet out of the firm mud, extracting a previously warm and cozy root from its earthen burrow as he went.

"Our coordinates are accurate," Garza went on tonelessly, pulling a map from his pocket. "Look—those three trees there, they're all in the right place. We're in the right place."

Spot blinked down at the map, eyes widening fractionally; even as Race bandaged up Patterson's thumb, he could see the look of foreboding in Spot's gaze. It was hard not to notice the way Spot's knobbled fingers shook just slightly as he looked down on Garza's map.

"Sarge…" whispered Patterson, taking hold of Race's right elbow for support; Race was still watching Spot. "Sarge, what if we don't meet up with them?"

Garza took the map, folded it, and tucked it away, exchanging it for a canteen, which he offered to Todd. His was lost…probably in the same tree as Kilkenny and Masterson. "Well, private," that was his favorite word, "we march ahead. We have our rendezvous point, we've made it, our company isn't here, we go on."

"Sarge, that's stupid," Spot whispered, eyes bugging. Race sighed, rolled his eyes again, and moved on to take a look at Pie, who was trying to hide the fact that something had been bothering his left leg since that morning. Pie was too busy glowering at Conlon to notice Race pulling an ace bandage with his name on it out of the pack strapped to his thigh.

"Private Conlon," Garza said in the barely contained exasperation he saved especially for his most difficult subordinate, "I could have you court-martialed for comments like that."

"Look, Sarge, you know well as I do that's it's a bad move, no matter what you want to call it," Spot went on, crossing his arms over his chest.

"OW!" Pie stared down at Race, who was squeezing his calf. His blush was fiery, even beneath the shadow of his helmet.

"How long you had this Charlie horse for, Sidoni?" Race asked accusingly. "How you gonna run with this? They're gonna shoot you dead trying to run with this."

"Oh, fuck off, Higgins!"

"You expect us to run after Winters and his men when we don't even know where our enemy is at?" Spot demanded, hysteria beginning to pepper his voice.

Garza's lip lifted at the corner and he drew back so quickly his elbow smashed into Todd's nose. Todd remained dead silent, eyes bugging out, because everyone knew what noise the likes of Todd screaming bloody murder would mean for them. They'd been damned lucky not to be noticed ducking into the ditch—too lucky, really. Race knew luck, and he knew having it around working in his favor was good, but he also knew when the lady overstayed her welcome. Nothing good came out of too much luck. Too much luck meant somebody was cheating.

"You never know where the enemy is at, Conlon. This isn't football. There's no playbook." He cocked an eyebrow at him. "The way you forced your way through basic training, it's evident you don't seem to understand that."

Race nearly forgot Pie's Charlie horse when he saw Spot rip off his helmet. "What're you trying to say, Garza?"

"I'm saying that your behavior is a breech of protocol and if you don't knock your shit off this instant, I'll have you back in Brooklyn begging for soup before you can say 'dishonorable discharge.'"

Spot was a fierce sight, eyes blazing, hair buzzed down to a single strip running the length of his forehead to his neck. "I am worried about our men, Sergeant!"

"Spot, don't!" Earbearton whispered, reaching out to grab Spot's shoulder.

Bad idea. Race recoiled slightly as Spot's shoulder connected hard with the soldier's throat.

"Our men, Conlon?" the Sergeant was now leering down on him, taller even on his knees than the private. "MY men, Conlon."

Spot's tone was too loud now; too fierce. Not even Racetrack could distract him when he got like this. "They would've been my men if you hadn't sabotaged my training, you lousy--"

"Shut up!" moaned Patterson from way down the line, his voice accompanied by the distant echoing ricochet of machine gun fire. Spot, Race, and Garza all turned their attention to stare at him before Race managed to drag Spot away from the sergeant.

"One more smart comment out of your mouth, Conlon," Garza warned, brown eyes blazing intensely as blue. He gave his men a cold once-over, challenging any of them to follow Spot's example, before turning to peer over the ridge slowly. A few horrible, tense moments passed, all—even O'Dell, seasoned wretch that he was—watching him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Garza was a horribly brash sort; ninety eight percent bravado and two percent brains. How he ended up Sergeant over Spot was anyone's guess, though Spot's comment about sabotage would have been suspiciously easy to believe…had it not been for his complete inability to shut his mouth in the face of an idea he disagreed with.

At the Sergeant's command, they silently began piling out of the ditch one by one. Race gave Spot a waggle of the eyebrows as they went—action, real action, at last—when he noticed something was not right.

Garza misjudged. The reason he hadn't seen anything in the distance was because of the roll of the land—they had not been in a ditch, but a gully carved out by something he didn't want to think about. The terrain here, pocked by trees that were as devastated as the ones surrounding their hiding place, stretched forward in waves of drying grasses; the land undulated softly, horrible gray waves capped by sickly army drab mold. A town not far off was literally crumbling to the ground. Race swallowed hard—Earbearton was right, someone had definitely been here before, and he had the sneaking suspicion that whoever they had been were made short order of in a terribly unpleasant way.

Spot turned to watch him, questioning, brow furrowed, bothered by the development himself—he knew the idiot was wrong, he was always wrong. If the outfit had been a pirate ship, he'd have led a mutiny by now.

_You look like shit_, Spot mouthed at him.

_Garza_, _He's a dipshit_ Race lied, giving a nonchalant shrug. No good came from acting like a dame in Spot's company.

Spot wondered momentarily how nice and satisfying it would be to watch that fucker's head blown off, and gestured as much to Race, who grinned and arranged his fingers into a pistol.

Spot followed suit, pointing at the grenade clipped to his belt, demonstrating how perfect an angle he was at to ambush their leader, before his face fell.

_What_? Race demanded. _Grenade__no__good_?

Spot gestured at his near-naked head frantically, jerking it back toward the ditch. Race held in a groan, scowling at him.

_I gotta go get it_, Spot's eyes told him—he didn't even have to mouth it. Spot spun in his boots and began to trot back at a far quicker pace than he'd come, footsteps muffled silent by the soft, festering earth beneath him. Garza and Todd turned to stare at the pair in horror. Race shrugged.

"Let him go, the fucking idiot," Garza hissed, before tramping onward. Todd shot him an apologetic smile—it was too apologetic; Race didn't like that look he was giving him, like he was in on something—before a wave of defiance overtook him.

Turning back himself and waving Pie off (the idiot was walking like a gimp; how had he failed to notice this? And they dared to call themselves Easy!) he watched as Spot prepared to jump into the ditch again, ammunition and other accoutrements jangling loudly as he adjusted himself. Race sighed, primed to rip him a new one for how utterly stupid and out of control he was being, when he heard Todd let out a horrified yell. He turned around just in time to watch half his squad—Garza included—disappear in a V-shaped wave of mud and grass, spraying the men behind them with its sticky, dirty aftermath.

Two seconds later he was down on his stomach, diving for the ditch, hand wrapped firmly around the ankle band of Spot's boot. Spot let out a startled cry—there was a loud crash, a pop, and Spot crumpled beside him, primal roar echoing across the terrain, punctuated by the ricochet of machine gun fire.

"Spot?" he demanded, trying to roll them into the conduit. Race gave his body another shove, but he wouldn't move. "SPOT!"

Spot remained unresponsive, torso and legs twisted in bizarre positions, as though he were a marionette with cut strings— too-limp and limber, splayed out like the octopus Race once found dead on the ground at the aquarium downtown.

The gunfire went silent; grenades stopped flying and spraying nature-made shrapnel in his eyes long enough that he could sit up to try and examine Spot. Just as he discovered the bullet's point of entry, he caught a flash of muddy brown fabric out of the corner of his eye, topped by a pale orb the color of pink baby flesh and corn cob.

He didn't have long to stare, though, because the next thing he knew, there was a gun butt at the base of his skull, and he couldn't see anything at all.

--

"_I don't think you heard me right, Higgins."_

_The two boys glared at each other, identical pairs of fists clenched at their sides. A small, entranced crowd surrounded them, the shuffling of their feet kicking up a miniature dust storm in the schoolyard. Neither of the boys gave the impression that they noticed their audience; they were too busy trying to see if looks really could kill._

"_Naw, Liam, I heard you fine." The darker of the pair shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant, but not doing very well. He was shifting from foot to foot, watching his opponent a bit more carefully than his opponent was watching him. "But I meant what I said. Besides, I can say whatever I want about your mother. It's a free country, ain't it?"_

"_Not that free!" Liam Conlon shouted, clearly infuriated. This was nothing new to those who were witness to the event. Liam spent most of his time infuriated and no one really cared to ask why. It would most likely earn the inquirer nothing more than a black eye._

"_I can say whatever I want!" Their voices were rising and the crowd packed in a little closer. They were as eager for a fight as those they were watching._

"_Not about my mother you can't!" Liam was spitting mad now, his already bright eyes shining with the heat of fury. He was like a tiger cub, snarling with muscles coiled, ready to lash out at whatever unlucky creature ventured too close._

"_Oh yeah? Well your mother's a good fu-…"_

_Liam roared, as much as an eleven-year-old boy can roar, flinging himself forward. He caught Anthony Higgins around the waist and they both tumbled to the ground in a flurry of sharp fists and even sharper elbows._

_Ten minutes later they were sitting outside the principal's office. Each had a bloody nose and Tony was sporting a fantastic black eye. Liam's hands were clenched tight on the edges of his chair as though he were trying very hard not to hit Tony again._

"_You're an asshole sometimes." Liam finally spoke through gritted teeth and Tony sighed, shoulders rising and falling as he did so. He reached up and prodded carefully at the ragged edges of his bruised eye._

"_Yeah, I know that." He shrugged and turned his head just barely to look at Liam, trying to assess how close he was to getting punched again. "But so are you, Spot…sometimes."_

_Liam was quiet for a very long time and out of the corner of his eye Tony could see some of the anger leave his wiry body._

"_Yeah." The word was reluctant. Liam released his death grip on the chair and started to swing his legs, his feet barely brushing the wood floor of the hall. "I guess. But next time you leave my mother out of it or I'll really give you a beating." His voice got a little harder, but Tony had to fight not to smile. If there was one thing he'd learned about his friend over the four years he'd known him, it was that Liam Conlon was very easy to upset._

"_Nothing about your mother, cross my heart and hope to die." Tony performed the required gesture that went along with the oath and looked over at Liam again. "We're gonna have to do lines again."_

"_Forget about it." Liam rolled his eyes, staring down at his swinging feet. "Hey, you spending the night at my house again?" It was a question he didn't really have to ask, but he did anyway because somehow that made it seem like it was more of Tony's choice, and not because he needed a place to stay._

"_Yeah." Tony nodded, falling silent. Both boys snuck careful glances at each other, neither sure how to move past the awkward subject._

"_You better be extra nice to my mother though, Race," Liam finally said in a warning tone._

"_Hey!" Tony's head shot up and he looked outraged. "When ain't I nice?"_

_The door to the principal's office opened and the boys pushed to their feet as they were beckoned in. Liam snorted and gave his best friend a playful shove before they stepped inside to meet their fates together._

--

Spot woke first, blinking to find long slats of water-warped, naked wood above him, belts of icy yellow light catching dust fairies as it filtered through spaces between the boards. Rubbing his eyes with an arm literally caked in dried mud, he swore profusely when he realized that there was a dead cow lying less than a foot away from him, flies drifting lazily about its headless body.

Better than a private or a sergeant, he supposed.

It appeared he was in some sort of cattle car. He could feel the wheels grinding across the tracks beneath him, running over things trains ought not to run over, and he might have wondered about it, had a particularly hard jerk not wrenched his leg against something cold and too solid.

Pain like nothing he'd ever experienced ripped through his entire body, radiating in shockwaves from his right hip. Biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, he tried to move the leg again, get it away from whatever it was smashed up against; he groaned in frustration as electricity screamed through him, as though every nerve in his body fired at once.

Willing the feeling to subside, he fell back slowly to glare at the ceiling. The source of his initial shock was an empty water trough nailed to the side of the car. He would have kicked it, had he been able to do more than lie around making mental threats at mold-riddled wooden slats.

"Medic," he muttered sardonically, before something exploded in his chest that had nothing to do with the pain in his leg. He forced himself to sit up again, twisting as gingerly as hysteria would allow, trying to ignore his injury. Racetrack. G Squad. Were they…he couldn't be alone--

"Race?" he hissed quietly, trying to see anything over the hay and the dead cows. There was another animal next to him, to his left; this one looked like it had been burned by something. He swore. "Oh, come on…anybody?"

Forcing himself from hyperventilating, Spot gripped his bum leg between both hands and forced himself into a sort of feline crouching position, peering up over the carcass slowly, hoping he wouldn't find any of his squadron fairing the same way as their nonhuman companions.

"Oh, fuck me—oh, gross."

"Race!" he cried, momentarily forgetting his pain, before flopping unceremoniously onto too-ripe cowhide.

"Conlon?" Race asked blearily, before loudly spitting something. "Where the hell are we? And why're you sleeping on a headless cow? Wait…why's there a cow? And why's it headless?"

"Hell if I know," Spot muttered, pushing himself back up again. "Some—some kind of train car."

"There're no windows?"

"I don't know, I haven't looked."

"I bet you haven't. Comfortable with your friend there?"

"Actually, Race," Spot said, swallowing hard and gritting his teeth, "I think I got something you'd like to look at."

Race, brushing straw off his shirt with a yawn and a wince for the back of his head, blinked blearily at him. "Oh yeah?"

"Don't make me say it again," Spot grumbled, lowering himself to the blood-splattered hay he woke up on.

Race's eyes went wide as he scrambled over the cow carcass; thoughts back at the rendezvous point. He found Spot's injury instantly: the right pocket was ripped away, a single square inch dangling from what was left of a decimated hem, leaving in its place a jagged hole rimmed in dark brown stain. Spot's head must've caught on something during his fall; a black gash, raised and swollen, ran in stark relief against the curve of his temple.

"They got me," Spot said softly.

"They got you."

"It ain't that bad, though," he shrugged.

Race cocked an eyebrow at him, and he scoffed.

"Oh, come on, Race—my first fucking day deployed and they got me?" Spot shook his head in disgust. "How pathetic is that? They didn't get me."

"Damn good thing you took off your helmet is all I can say." Race went to dig into his supplies and found to his horror that his leg pack was gone.

Swearing, he went into his pockets instead, retrieving two small bottles of aspirin and alcohol respectively.

"This's all I've got," he whispered, handing the aspirin to him.

"Aspirin's for pussies."

"Be a pussy, then, I don't care," Race gave him the stink eye. "I don't have anything else for you. The bastards took my pack."

"Stupid to have it strapped to your leg. I always told you--"

"Would've saved you a lot of trouble, if you'd been wearing it," Race pointed out, smug smile crossing his face to hide the penetrating fear that was developing as he peeled the fabric away from Spot's wound. He bit his lip, ripping a piece off of his undershirt to use for gauze. "Lemme have your knife, Spot."

"My knife?" Spot laughed coldly, going for his belt. "Doc, you gonna amputate?"

"Whole thing has to come off, and maybe a few inches from the other one, just for good measure."

"Oh, fuck," Spot's hands balled into fists, which he brought slamming down into the hay. "I don't got a knife, or my gun, or anything else." He went for one of his chest pockets next, before letting out a roar.

"Darn, can't operate, then?"

"Guess I'm gonna have to keep it. Sorry."

"Got a hair pin, at least? I need to pick at you."

"For the love of god, they took my fucking booze!"

"The stuff from that Brit dame?"

"No, the bottle I stole off'a Patterson," he sighed. At least they hadn't touched his picture.

"Well, they left me mine," Race said, waving the bottle in front of his nose. "This is gonna hurt you a lot more than me." He emptied a few drops into Spot's lacerated flesh, and to Spot's credit, he didn't so much as flinch. "You are one tough son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Don't go talking about my mother. You always gotta bring my poor mother into it, don't you," Spot snapped, baring his teeth in a grin. "You started fixing me yet?"

"Har, har," Race balled the wad of cotton into a bunch, wet it with his Shropshire gin, and began dabbing up the blood. "Damn lucky you didn't let those flies get to you, Spot. You only got a minor infection here."

"Hey, guess what," Spot said suddenly, wearing a look so foreign Race didn't recognize it immediately. "Remember that little thing about Garza taking my position?"

"You only remind us every five minutes," Race said, both relieved and somewhat worried to find that the wound had already begun to scab over. He'd have to get that bullet out fast.

"Damn right. You don't want to forget these kinds of things," Spot swallowed as Race took a particular hard swipe at one of the fluid-engorged scabs. "Anyway, yeah, well, I always said I'd get it back some day."

Race's hands froze for only a moment. "That a sure thing?"

"Splat," Spot said flatly, jazz hands waggling at the juncture of his throat and head.

"Golly."

"You should'a seen O'Dell, 'fore they got him in the throat."

The color drained from Race's so fast it was like he'd turned on a faucet to wash it away. "You're kidding me."

"Took 'em out in less than a second, Race, like in one of those films," Spot laughed a little. "That's what you get for listening to idiots like Garza. They really oughtta leave command to the bucks."

"Like Grayson and Todd, right?" Race scoffed, trying not to think about the fate the squad met without him. "Dipshits couldn't tie their own bootlaces, kid."

"They would've learned real quick with me bossing 'em around."

"We joined this company to fight fascism, not perfect it."

Spot grinned mirthlessly. "With me in charge, our boys'd be doing as well as those guys blowing 'em up."

Race did not find any of it funny, and didn't think Spot really meant him to.

Then again, maybe he did. He could never tell with Spot. "Listen, you keep this pressed on there, would you? I gotta see if I can find anything to dig that shell outta you. We leave it there, the muscle's gonna start growing back around it, and then we'll really have to cut it out."

"It's not that bad, really." Spot's brow furrowed, but his smile stayed firmly in place. Race frowned at him, and he sighed, long-suffering. "Whatever you say, doc."

"Damn," Race murmured, crawling around the floor, looking for anything he might be able to sanitize. A bone might've worked, but he had nothing to properly sanitize it with, and he sure as hell wasn't going to go digging through that cow neck if he didn't have to. When he stood, he was hit by an unpleasant wave of nausea; temporarily paralyzed from the dizzying throb at the base of his skull, everything in the car swirled around him for a moment. Remembering the tow-headed Nazi who'd clubbed him, he shook himself out, regained his balance, and began searching for the door. He definitely had a concussion.

"Ah-ha." The door was bolted from the outside, but the wood was rotten enough that one good shove would have him out of there in no time.

"You've got shit stuck to your back, Race," Spot called to him, saluting him with the gin and taking a long drink.

"Don't waste that; who knows when we'll get more of it," Race replied, trying to find something to bludgeon the door open with.

Spot capped the bottle and tucked it into his remaining hip pocket. "Any idea where we are?"

"No. But don't worry about it—you just keep that compress on, Spot, and stay still," Race replied. There was a rake in the corner; it had several teeth missing, but it might prove sturdy enough to get through the door.

"Okay, Ma."

Race grabbed the rake and brushed it off, careful not to spread too much on his injured friend. Spot growled at him, but as he was partially immobile, he did little else in retaliation.

"How'm I supposed to keep still when you're throwing shit at me, idiot?"

"What? I can't hear you," Race replied, positioning the rake as a battering ram. He lunged forward with it, managed to wedge the handle between slats, smacked face-first into the boards, and went flying backward, crash landing backwards on top of the cow that still had its head.

To his horror, it mooed at him brokenly.

"Good lord, I resurrected it," Race cried, jumping up in fright.

"You're a fucking miracle worker," Spot replied. "You can reanimate livestock, but you can't dig a simple bullet out of a soldier's leg."

"I'm not worried about your leg, I'm trying to bust us out of here," Race muttered, staring at the cow suspiciously. "Besides, you're probably enjoying it."

"You know me too well," Spot said, waving the bloodied compress at him. "Fuck, Race, just use your fingers."

Race, anxious to get away from the cow, picked up the rake again, opting for a different approach. "I can't, stupid; they've got cow shit on them."

"No they don't. That's your back. Your fingers are fine."

"Spot, shut up."

"I'll just dig it out myself, then."

"Don't you fucking dare!" Race snarled, brandishing the rake head at him. The tongs were rusty; Race took one in his right hand and began bending it back and forth, sending little red flakes floating in the air surrounding him.

"What're you playing at?"

"I'm making a lever."

"For what?"

"To try and get around to the bolt outside," Race said, bending the tong back, then forward, then back again. "It's got a simple slip-pin lock. If I can bend this thing to the point that I can reach the bar—"

"I get it," Spot nodded vaguely; his eyes were beginning to glass over. "That first attempt proved unsuccessful, did it?"

"No. I revived Bessy here."

"Bessy?"

"Seems like the kind of name a cow would have."

"This is a Dutch cow. Bessy ain't Dutch."

"Neither am I," Race said, finally managing to break the tooth off in a plume of iron. "I claim this cow for America."

Spot stole a glance at his leg, before smirking up at Race. There was blood between his fingers, oozing up between the cheap cotton fiber. "Now that oughtta earn you the Congressional Medal of Honor, staking territory on half-cooked farm animals."

"Meat rations. You know."

"I could go for a steak. Make me a steak, Ma."

"Stop trying to be funny, Spot. You ain't funny." Race said with a shake of the head. Getting back to his feet, he took the tooth to the edge of the trough, pushing down on either end. It gave far easier than it had snapped off the rake.

"You know," Spot drawled on, watching Race's relative nimbleness with poorly concealed envy, "taking weaker territory that you aren't entitled to…doesn't sound too democratic to me."

"Well slap my ass and call me Hitler, that cow's name is Bessy and that's that," Race replied distractedly, slipping the edge of the bar through the space between the two boards closest to the door's locking mechanism. Bessy gave a strangled moo, and Spot shuddered at it.

"Let's just shoot it, put it out of its misery," Spot said, staring at the poor animal in disgust. "The hell is wrong with it, anyway? It ain't burnt that bad."

"I don't know…busted leg or spine maybe? I'm no vet," Race replied, tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth in concentration, trying to catch anything at all with the rusty tooth. It was no good; he'd bent the thing too short.

"Some medic you are, can't fix a bullet wound, can't diagnose a cow—"

At that moment, the car came to a horrible, grinding halt, sending Bessy, Race, and the dead cow flying forward. Race and Bessy hit the wall; the poor heifer's cry melded in atonal dissonance with Spot's wailing, the headless corpse slamming hard into his legs. Race fell to his knees, suddenly so ill he was afraid he might vomit; Spot beat him to it, spraying himself, the hay, and the cow now crushing his calves with gin and bile.

The door was thrown open, projecting Race's ill-fitted key from its cubby hole. It met the opposing wall in a cloud of rust so potent it filled Spot's lungs with fire. Two men, a thick-necked officer in a long black coat, the other a baby faced underling with yellow hair and an obscene K98k, stood in the doorway, backlit by lemony sunshine that cast them in ethereal light, all fuzzy dust glow and black shadow.

"Sprechen sie Deutsches?" the thick-necked one demanded, tone prideful; haughty. He stood in contraposition, free hand resting on the handle of a sleek black walking stick.

"Nein, you fat motherfucker," snapped Spot, head awash in pain so potent he thought he might pass out again. Race watched him silently, deceptively calm, breathing silent.

"I would watch your mouth, private," the man—some sort of commander, clearly—said calmly, thick accent making him twice as ominous as he already was. "You are under our care now. I would not like you to be on my bad side."

Spot glared at him, but said nothing. The kid was staring at him, so blatantly disgusted that his skin was turning a comical green.

"Wo sind wir?" Race asked from where he was shakily getting to his feet. The blond had his rifle on him so fast it was as though it was pointed there from the beginning.

"Like he's gonna tell you," Spot snapped, clutching at his leg, trying to wrench it from beneath the cow.

"Es gibt zwei! Herrlich, Ivan. Brunnen getan," the commander said, smiling so sinisterly the cows seemed to shudder in his wake, Spot's captor included.

The boy blushed, the combination of blood and nausea turning his baby cheeks an ugly bruise-green. "Vielen dank, Obersturmführer Schneider." He pulled something from his pocket, pressing it into the man's sausage-fingered hands. The officer stared at the offering for a moment, nodding.

"Your names are Anthony Higgins and Liam Conlon," the thick man—Schneider—stated, leaning on his walking stick, still leering at them like a particularly greedy child in a particularly fine toy shop. "You are now under the surveillance of the Fuhrer, Herr Pulitzer, and myself."

Race and Spot watched, stricken, as the man opened his fist, dangling their dog tags in front of his face mockingly, before throwing them at Spot's side.

Spot finally managed to wrench his legs free of his captor, snatching the necklaces and holding them to his chest. The boy switched his attention back to him, pulling back the hammer of the K98k. He hadn't even cocked the gun yet? Spot snarled at them, slipping the tags around his neck. Crawling painfully up the wall, he managed to stand straight for six whole seconds before hissing through his teeth, slumping over, arms wrapping around his waist in poorly veiled agony. Race watched him wearily, blood pounding in his ears, willing him not to do anything too rash, too stupid. Spot did well under fire, but he'd never had to face fire with a mildly infected bullet wound souring his temper before.

The smile dropped off Schneider's face instantly, and he too retrieved a firearm, a much smaller, more compact handgun, training it on Race.

"You will follow me now," he instructed, waving at the underling to follow suit. "I allow one more question."

"The fuck are we going?" Spot wheezed instantly, causing Race to stand up straighter, shake a little harder.

Schneider's face remained hard, bright glare intense against the pure white of his hair and eyebrows. "Ton Stalag 18. Sie sind unsere jetzt und Sie bleiben leise, bis ich anders sage. Entlang, kommen Soldat."

What little color Race still had vanished instantly, and Spot watched him wide eyed.

"Let's go," commanded Schneider, spinning on his heel, marching down the stairs. The boy allowed Race to pull Spot off of the wall. He helped him step over the cows, and ignored the way Bessy called mournfully to them over her limp shoulders. Spot was drenched with sweat, cold as winter with half-lidded eyes and the angriest scowl Race had ever seen on anyone.

"Where's this little green kraut cunt taking us, Race?" Spot whispered, glowering at the young officer as he herded them with his rifle.

A mass of men in charcoal uniforms marched ahead, pouring into the street that led directly outward from the railway. They hadn't stopped at a station; the tracks their train was stopped on sliced right down the center of a small village. All around were women and children, staring out at them, plate-eyed, from their windows.

"Gehen sie!" roared the kid, nudging Racetrack between the shoulder blades with his muzzle.

Spot tried to shake Race's arm off of him, but Race wouldn't allow it. Spot stepped defiantly over the tracks, dragging Race behind him, half a crutch and half a burden, feet slipping and spit-hissing all the way. Blood was creeping slowly outward from the swollen wound; Race turned away from it. Staring would do no good for neither of them.

A sea of SS officers stretched on ahead, some as young as they were, some old and grizzled, all grim-faced. The townspeople did not greet them; they ducked back behind shutters and doors and shrubbery that they could not afford to take care of. Race would have appreciated the architecture, had he not been fixated on the barbed wire fencing and wooden watchtower shivering in the ascending sunlight, abruptly cutting the village off from the fields that stretched off into the horizon.

Spot's breathing hitched softly, eyes catching in Race's line of sight.

"That answer your question, Spot?"

Spot didn't hesitate to respond; didn't bother to sound frightened.

"Well, fuck me."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Hilby's Note:** I apologize for any discrepancies in my German. If you notice anything poorly written, do inform me—I'll fix it. Danke!

**Falco's Note: **I have nothing worth noting! Alas!


	3. Chapter Two

The check-in office was a tiny room with a brick fireplace housing nothing but documents in manila folders. A desk fashioned from what looked to be a child's tea table groaned under the weight of yet more folders; the back wall was lined with shelves and shelves of color-coded file boxes. On the floor sat a great white and black machine, whirring and clicking to itself, and a young man—he couldn't have been any older than twenty-five—sat beside it, feeding it a thick white card, which it then stamped with a loud clack. He was dressed in civilian clothing, a threadbare cotton shirt, argyle sweater, brown pants and scuffed leather shoes; on his head sat an old cap. He took the card from the machine and dusted himself off, frowning darkly at the little punches the machine left behind.

Race had to keep from cringing as the tabulator turned his face to them; Spot didn't bother.

"Sie holten mir mehr Amerikaner?"1 he asked the young SS officer that followed them all the way from the cattle car to the camp.

"Wir gefunden Sie in ein ausbooten."2 The blond spat.

"He was shot already, you will tell me?" the civilian smiled mirthlessly. "Or did their baby faces scare you as bad as mine? Głupi kłamliwy pierdolił."

"Sprichst Deutsch, Sie damlich Polen!"3

"I'll damlich Polen you, ty głupi, naiwny mały dziecko,"4 the operator spat. He wasn't German, then. That explained the hostility, and the civilian clothing. "Why? They are good little soldiers, they understand everything we say anyway. Sie verstehen, daß alles, das wir sagen, nicht Sie, Lieblinge?"5

Spot watched curiously as Race's gaze narrowed just slightly, as though he were reading a fellow card player, trying to call his bluff. "Who you callin' little boys, 'ey, Polack?"

The smile melted right off the guy's face, and he scowled at them brilliantly. "Talking like that, I'd have shot you too. Be careful, because idiots like this one—" he indicated the young guard "—they will shoot you. Maybe not this coward, but others. Anyway, this is Stalag 18. Wilkommen."

"Yeah, donkey-shane or some shit," Spot muttered exhaustedly, before hissing in pain as the muzzle of the officer's gun jabbed hard into his spine.

"You are lucky, numbers Am4876 and Am4877," the tabulator went on, handing them a blanket. His English was odd; a mix of German, Polish, and British affectations. The boy behind them let out a squawk of surprise. "You come in one at a time like this, they treat you nicely, and maybe you might get that bullet taken out before your leg gets cut off. We usually just let your type die. Too many of you."

Spot let out a strained laugh, and Race adjusted him on his shoulder. "That so?"

"Go on, before little Ivan gets impatient," the tabulator's strange smile began creeping back upward, crinkling his crooked nose and the horrendous scar that traced from his forehead, down through what once might have been an eye, and down the length of his cheek. "Klein Ivan Ursachen ein Durcheinander wenn er ist aufgebracht."6

The boy rounded on him with his gun and all he did was laugh. Both Race and Spot shot impressed looks at each other, watching the poor little Nazi squirm under the Pole's taunting.

"Take 76 away, officer," the tabulator said with an offhanded, flippant little wave. "I have much to attend to." Then he retrieved a cheap British cigarette from his breast pocket and lit up, turning his back to them, rifling through more files.

The guard growled softly in the back of his throat, nudging Spot with the rifle.

"Where—where you taking him?" Race asked tentatively, as the Pole began digging through one of the piles behind the stacks of paper.

"I can't understand you," the tabulator replied in a sing-song voice, before knocking over a huge stack of papers. "Ach Scheiße. Ich bin in Ärger nun jetzt!7 Be kind when you report me, Ivan."

Little Ivan, if that was truly the SS officer's name, began to moan something about hours of organization. The tabulator came back with a bent walking stick, handing it to Spot.

"There you are," he replied, much to Ivan's disdain. "We have some kind Communists to operate on you."

"Wait—what?!!" This time it was Race protesting, eyes bugging. "Wait, wait—I want—"

"Shut up!" roared the little SS officer, hitting him with the rifle again, before grabbing Spot hard by the arm. Race reeled backward, narrowly missing yet another stack of papers, catching himself on the makeshift brick mantle.

"Ivan , welches ist verkehrt? Sein beruhigen! ICH bedeutete Sie null Leid."8 The Pole was on his feet again, helping to steady Racetrack, Spot two seconds from attempting to beat the snot out of the Nazi, regardless of rifle or injury.

There was a hint of hysteria in Ivan's voice as he shouted at the tabulator, "Wir wischten aus ihrem gesamten Geschwader, Lew ab. Alle! Acht soldiers, gegangen. Sofort."9

"What did you just say?" Race asked, eyes like plates. Ivan blinked at him stupidly for a moment before Spot wrenched himself away from his grip.

There was silence in the little room before Ivan began pushing Spot with his gun, barking some sort of parting insult at the tabulator in Polish. He slammed the door of the hut so hard that more papers fell from their place, inspiring a sigh from Race's one-eyed captor.

"Where are they taking him?" Race whispered.

"To Specs," replied the tabulator with a shrug. "But I'm not allowed to tell anyone that. He will help him." He gave Race the once over, before a smile split his face. "He just received a secret package with American medical supplies. Maybe Ivan took it off a soldier?"

Race stared at him, slack-jawed and suddenly overwhelmed. "What is your name?"

"That is none of your business," the man replied, leading him out the door and locking it behind him.

"The Nazi called you Lew."

"The Americans call me Blink," he replied cagily.

Race grinned. "I like it."

"I know. Americans are cruel," Blink sniffed, removing his cap and giving his brilliant golden hair a toss. Strands of it caught white in the sun, and Race realized large chunks were missing.

"What happened to your hair?"

Blink glanced at him from his good eye before scowling. "I can't understand you."

Race sighed, too tired to be more than mildly annoyed. "Oh, I see." He paused a moment. "I'm Tony Higgins. My friends call me Racetrack."

"I don't want to know your name," Blink said abruptly, pace quickening.

"Your English is very good," Race went on, running to catch up with him, before demanding, "You aren't really SS?"

The man let out a cold, harsh laugh. "Oh no, Mister 77, I am Dehomag."

"What?"

"I just make machines go," he replied coolly. "I don't kill people. I keep track of them."

"And they let you stay?"

Blink rolled his good eye; it was a washed-out, cornflower blue. "I can't understand you. Now, come along. I will take you to your—what do you say? The place where soldiers sleep."

"Barracks."

"Yes!" the man adjusted his collar. "Maybe you might even see your friend again."

Race swallowed hard. He knew this was a possibility, had always known it, but—to be faced with it; they weren't even fighting for God's sake. For once, he was grateful for Spot's affinity for pain.

--

"Bewegen Sie, bewegen Sie!" The muzzle of the rifle was jabbing sharply between Spot's shoulder blades and it was beginning to annoy. The blond SS officer was slowly rising on his list.

He kept his mouth shut, though, mostly because he was reaching a point where he wasn't sure what would come out if he opened it. The pain in his leg was nearly debilitating. Spot would swear he could feel the bullet lodged in his hipbone, digging and grinding it's way in deeper.

They were approaching a long line of squat, ugly buildings. They were clapboard and a washed out gray color, their few windows left bare and dirty, exactly like army barracks, but without any of the charm or comfort. Spot sighed and struggled valiantly onward.

"Heir." The officer- the tabulator had called him Ivan- stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and gestured that Spot should enter the building closest to them. Spot glanced back at him, disgust clear on his face. Delicately he lifted the man's hand from his shoulder and dusted the filthy shirt off a little. It earned him a painful shove, but he figured it was worth it.

He had to battle his way up the stairs. The cane helped a little, but by the time he made it to the doorway, Spot was nearly blind with pain, sweat soaking his fatigues. "All to myself?" he muttered bleakly, trying to peer into the dimly lit interior. "Fucking generous little assholes aren't they…" His head swam and the next step he took was uneven. Spot tipped forward, the cane clattering on the floor when he dropped it.

"'Fraid not," a quiet voice said in his ear as he was caught, saved from smashing his nose against the wooden floor. "Let's get you in a bed."

"Fuck are you?" Spot mumbled, blinking a few times as he was hoisted up, a strong arm around his waist. He was all but carried across the room, finally eased down onto a wooden board masquerading as a bed.

"My name is Daniel Singer. I'm a medic," the disembodied voice said. Spot closed his eyes for a moment and his vision cleared as he opened them. He was looking up into the face of a young man with curly brown hair and round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He was a bit dirty, hair mussed and clothes rumpled, but his smile was reassuring, as was his American accent. "You can call me Specs, though."

"A medic?" Spot said as he began to struggle into a sitting position. "What makes you think I need a med-God fucking damn it all to hell!"

Specs had prodded Spot gently in the hip, just above the entry wound, and the tidal wave of pain that crashed over him sent Spot back against the bed, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched tight. Specs shook his head and set a hand on Spot's shoulder, sending him a rueful look.

"It's already a little infected. I have stuff to clean it and get that bullet out, but you'll have to cooperate."

"Fuck you," Spot hissed, not opening his eyes. "Shit that hurt. I bet you enjoyed it, didn't you? Sick fucker."

Specs stared down at him, a bit shocked by the sheer animosity in the other man's voice. His brow furrowed, but instead of responding, he crossed the room and grabbed a recently acquired medical supply pack up off the floor. The contents of it fell across Spot's leg as Specs dumped it out onto the thin blanket. Bandages, bottles of alcohol, a scalpel, a box of morphine surrettes (Spot eyed these with interest), sulfa powder and a pair of scissors rattled around as Specs sifted through them appreciatively.

"Hey." Spot grabbed the now empty pack and held it up, scowling at it. "Hey, asshole. This isn't yours."

"No," Specs said distractedly as he opened the box of morphine and counted the number of surrettes. He made a pleased noise when he found the box full. "The guards just give me what they pull off the other prisoners."

"Yeah, other prisoners meaning my buddy. This is Race's."

"Who now?" Specs looked up at him, eyebrows raised in an amused arch.

Spot responded with a withering glare. "Race. It's his nickname, Specs."

"Fair enough, but it isn't his anymore. It's ours. We all need this stuff."

"Fuck that noise." Spot's voice had dropped to a growl and he swung his bad leg over the side of the bunk with a grunt of effort. "If I need a medic, which I don't, I'm going to Race. Where is he." It wasn't a question, it was an order, and it made Specs question the absence of officer chevrons on the man's uniform. He spoke like he was used to giving people commands.

"Look, you can barely even walk. It won't take me long to patch you up." Specs pushed to his feet and put two hands out, trying to discourage Spot from moving any further. Spot just knocked the offending appendages away with a snarl.

"Did you not understand me? Should I be speaking Fuckhead? Would you get it then?" He heaved himself to his feet, lowering his weight down on his good leg and wobbling some. "Get out of my way, Doc. I don't need you."

Specs watched him for a long moment, utterly baffled by this behaviour. A man as badly injured as Spot was should not have been able to move around like he was, much less want to. Yet he was already hobbling to the side in an attempt to get by Specs. The bespectacled medic sighed and shook his head in disbelief. "C'mon. At least let me help you get there."

Spot paused and glared at him for a moment. His shoulders finally slumped in resignation and he extended one arm, indicating that Specs should step up so Spot could lean on him. Spec's did so and Spot let him take only enough weight so that he could walk without his leg buckling out from underneath him.

"You know, if you don't let someone look at that wound you'll lose the leg." Spec's said once they had struggled down the stairs and out onto the dirt parade ground.

"Did I ask for your medical opinion?" Spot groused, keeping his eyes on the ground. Each step was agony, but he kept his jaw locked tight.

"Christ," Specs mumbled as they neared the next squat building, "it's a wonder they didn't shoot you in the head."

"Yeah, well, they haven't gotten to know me yet."

The pain was getting to the point where he didn't know how much longer he could keep his eyes focused. He was slowly allowing Specs to take more and more of his weight until, by the time they started up the stairs to the barracks, Specs was all but carrying him. The door was already open and they struggled their way through, attracting the attention of the few occupants.

"Spot!" Race's voice was a relief to Spot's ears. He lifted one hand in a weak salute and closed his eyes when the room spun. A different pair of hands found him and Spot felt Specs step away, leaving him practically draped over the newcomer.

"You are such a fucking idiot I don't think I can even make fun of you for it." Race's voice was quiet and strained in his ear. Spot gave a horrible, humourless sort of laugh.

"It ain't so bad, Racetrack. I was just telling the Doc here…" he gestured to where he thought Specs was, when in reality he was pointing at empty air, "all I need is some fresh air. See?" He took a deep breath, keeping his eyes shut.

"God damn it." Race sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth and Spot smiled. "Just lie down, asshole, and don't be a pussy when I clean this out. I know that's what you're really doing."

"Am not," Spot said woozily, allowing himself to be eased down on a slightly more comfortable bed. It felt as though someone had stuffed the mattress with old clothes, but it was better than the board Specs had had him on before. "I just ain't hurt."

"Shut up." Race said, accepting the bag Specs handed him with a grateful nod. "Just stop talking. If you say one more word I'll punch you in the kidney."

"You would no- OW!" Spot cracked one unfocused eye open and glared in Race's general direction. He rubbed the place on his forehead where his friend had flicked him. "That wasn't a punch you pu- OW! God damn it, Higgins!"

"Shut up, Spot." Race pulled the sulfa powder and the scissors out before beginning to cut a slit through Spot's pants and boxers so he could have clear access to the wound. "You don't have to do anything, just lie back and shut up."

They had gathered a bit of an audience, as they often did when they bickered. However, neither paid the soldiers surrounding them a bit of notice. Race had his tongue between his teeth as he tried to wipe the blood away as gently as possible. He could see the infection and the word gangrene danced tauntingly in the forefront of his mind. He shook the thought away and, bracing one hand on Spot's shoulder, dumped a packet of sulfa powder on the darkened, shredded flesh. He felt the body under his hand jerk a little, but Spot remained silent, mouth drawn in a grim line and eyes open.

"Impressive," said someone behind Race. The medic didn't bother to turn and see who had spoken. He needed to figure out a way to get the bullet out without worsening the infection.

"Conlon's like that," he said distractedly, finding the scalpel and examining it with a wrinkled nose. "Does anyone have a lighter? Or a longer knife?"

A pair of hands reached over his shoulder, a switchblade in one palm and a zippo in the other. "Thanks," Race said, still not looking back. "You're gonna want something to bite on, Conlon." He flicked open the switchblade and started pulling it through the flame. Once he was satisfied he turned to look up at the man standing behind him.

"Hold him down for me?"

"Yeah. My name's Kelly, so you know. Jack Kelly, army rangers, 2nd Battalion." He pushed honey brown hair off his forehead and moved to stand at the head of the bed. Jack looked down at Spot, but only got a glare in return. "You sure he won't punch me?"

"Yeah," Race accepted what looked like a broken rung of a latter from Specs and dusted it off before giving it to Spot. His friend eyed it unhappily before wedging it between his teeth.

Jack kept his eyes on Spot and Race couldn't help noting that the color of them matched, both that almost unnaturally clear blue. Race pushed off the chair and knelt next to the bed. Specs did the same and Race nodded to him gratefully, handing him the Zippo. He glanced up to see Jack setting his hands against Spot's shoulders, leaning forward to apply weight.

Spot reached up and took the stick out of his mouth. "I get that Rangers are real men or whatever the fuck it is you kids call yourselves these days, but you don't have to dislocate my shoulder, asshole."

Race, who had been about to dig into the wound with the sterilized knife, pulled back quickly. He sighed and sat back on his heels. "Conlon. What did I say about shutting up?"

"It's alright, Doc," Jack said, smiling down at Spot in a way that Race knew would infuriate the Brooklynite. "I can handle Little Miss Priss here. If the pressure's too hard for you, honey, all you gotta do is say so."

There was silence for a long moment. Race could sense Specs suppressing loud laughter next to him, but his attention was on Spot. Previously unfocused with a haze of pain and shock, his eyes had hardened. Race saw his jaw clench and unclench a few times before he actually spoke.

"When I can get up," Spot said, voice shaking with effort, "I'm going to kill you."

"Sure thing." Jack patted him on the shoulder in a decidedly condescending manner and Race was sure he saw steam shooting out of Spot's nose.

"Can we just do this?" Race asked, lifting the knife again. He lifted a questioning eyebrow at Spot and got a begrudging nod in return. Race laid one hand on his friend's forearm and gave it a brief squeeze before turning back to the wound. He thought of offering Spot one of the morphine surrettes, but he knew it would be refused. He sighed heavily and glanced up at Spot's head to make sure he had the wood clenched between his teeth again. "All right," he said, taking a deep breath, "here we go."

The knifepoint dug into Spot's infected flesh and the man's back arched. Race felt his hand clamp onto his shoulder and winced a little at the grip. He didn't risk looking up at Spot, but he heard Jack make a surprised, and possibly impressed, noise. Spot wasn't making a sound. His body was drawn in a taut line, completely rigid with pain, but he was silent. Race shook his head a little and bent his head, tongue between his lips, as he worked on finding the bullet.

Spot's grip on his shoulder tightened doubly when the knife hit bone and Race whispered a quick sorry. He was going to have quite a bruise when this was all done. He cursed the man who'd made the decision to throw them in the cattle car. The combination of rotting animal and cow manure had done a number on the wound and Race knew it hurt twice as bad because of the infection. He worked as quickly as he could, finally finding the flattened bullet and managing to wedge the tip of the knife underneath it. Race frowned, gaze narrowing a little; the lead was lodged in Spot's hipbone.

"Jesus." He shook his head once and shifted his grip on the hilt of the knife. "Spot, I'm really sorry for this." He didn't hesitate in digging the knife in between the bullet and the bone, finally eliciting a strangled cry from Spot. His body jerked under Race's hands and Race shot Jack a brief glare. He had the bullet away from the bone, but he'd lose it if Spot moved too much.

"Yeah, I got it," Jack said, voice tight. His knuckles were white, pressing down on Spot's chest more than his shoulders. Specs had moved to the foot of the bed and was leaning down on Spot's legs, keeping him from kicking, and Race felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. It was clear that his patient was moments from passing out and Race knew it would only be another wound to the proud young man's ego if he did.

Another second of tense silence, Spot shuddering every so often, and Race gave a gasping cry of relief. He sat back on his heels and lifted a blood-covered hand to show Specs the bullet. The other medic nodded once and pressed to his feet, giving Spot a friendly pat on the leg.

"Hey, Conlon." Race rose up onto his knees so he could lean over his friend and hold the bullet up to him. "A souvenir."

Spot spit the now well-scored rod of wood out of his mouth and lifted his lip in a snarl at the little chunk of metal. "Fuckin' Nazis. Fuck, I hate Germany, Race."

"We all do." Jack slapped him on the shoulder and straightened, shoving his hands in his pockets. He seemed well impressed with Spot's tolerance for pain, but Spot glared up at him resentfully. Jack just smiled, bemused, before turning away.

Race pressed the bullet into Spot's hand, closing his fingers over it for him. "You'll be alright," he said; low enough so that only Spot could hear it. Race, however, wasn't sure who he was reassuring.

"I know that," Spot said, holding the bullet up for inspection. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head, reaching up to wipe sweat off his pale forehead. "Fuckin' Nazis."

"You want any morphine?" Race stood, wiping his bloodied hand on his fatigues.

"No," Spot said shortly, still examining the bullet.

Race sighed and turned to see if Specs knew where he could wash his hands. He wished he hadn't attempted to console his friend. He knew better than that, anyway. Spot didn't accept sympathy, or even compassion; he never had. Sometimes Race wondered why he even bothered to try.

---------

1 "You brought me more Americans?"

2 "We found them in a ditch."

3 "Speak German, you damned Pole!"

4 "You wood-headed, unsophisticated child."

5 "You understand everything we're saying, don't you, darlings?"

6 "Little Ivan makes a mess when he's angry."

7 "Oh, shit. I'm in trouble now."

8 "Ivan, what's gotten into you? Calm down! I meant you no harm."

9 "We wiped out an entire squadron, Lew. Everything! Eight soldiers, gone. Immediately."

--

Hilby's Note: Again, any discrepancies in the German, whack me over the head and tell me to fix them. I like aggressive, constructive criticism. :D

Falco's Note: She likes her criticism like she likes her men. Aggressive and constructive. And gay. Wait, what?


	4. Chapter Three

"Well! Look at this mess you've made in here, Blink old boy," Specs hung his pathetic, threadbare Army-issue coat from the peg that was bolted to the right of the door. Ludwick Balka, head of the camp's record keeping and a civilian, turned his good eye to the visitor and smiled.

"Yes, it's grand, isn't it?" He gestured off-handedly at the piles left over from the previous morning. "I've not touched one of them, not one piece of paper!"

"You're a regular revolutionary, Lewy. Schneider seen this?" asked Specs, scratching his chin worriedly as he bent to retrieve a few of the punch cards that were accumulating foot prints next to the doormat. He glanced at them, trying to find a name.

"As soon as he does," Blink said, typewriter clacking away, "I'll get right on it."

Specs shook his head in wonder. "It's remarkable, half of the things you get away with."

"What of the other half, then?" Clack, clack, clack.

"Miracles. Each incident." Clack, clack, ping!

"They'll do me one day, I'm sure," The tabulator pushed the platen into starting position again with a great shove--his machinery was woefully out of date, as was anything in the stalag not used directly for murder. "Have you seen Ivan?"

"No," Specs pulled out the stool Blink kept hidden behind crates of alcohol and sat beside him, peering over his shoulder to read his letter. "What's all this?"

"Work orders for the guards," Blink gave a noncommittal shrug. "I took over for Inga." He paused for a moment. "You haven't seen Ivan at all?"

"Not since he delivered the fresh meat," Specs's attention turned to the string hanging off one of his hip pockets, rolling it back and forth between his index and middle fingers. "He hasn't been reassigned, has he?"

"He's requested it," Blink replied, not a hint of emotion in his voice as he continued to type.

He paused to take a slug of whiskey before yanking the finished list from the typewriter.

"What sort of request?"

"A different building is all," Blink's eye flicked over to his companion, and he smirked mirthlessly. "Afraid you'll lose him, are you?"

Specs smirked in reply, shaking his head. He handed Blink a fresh sheet of parchment. "He knows too much, you know."

"Ivan'd never scam on you, Specs."

"Squeal, Blink. Squeal, not scam."

Blink rolled his eye and began feeding the device a fresh sheet of paper. "Squeal, scam, it's all the same."

"I don't trust any of them, not Ivan, not any of them," Specs insisted firmly. "I would miss having a sympathetic guard around, that's all."

"Sympathy, really? I'm sure one of those new boys would offer you sympathy." Ping!

"Oh, fuck off, Cyclops," he muttered, before Blink's words sunk in. "But, you know, I--I sort of wondered the same thing. Do you think--"

Blink's smirk widened. "I don't understand you."

"Oh, come on, Blink, that's not f-"

"I am surprised that they were not interrogated," Blink went on, pausing to look over his typing. He scratched at his temple for a moment, adjusted his collar, popped his neck.

"Really?"

"They weren't asked a single question," Blink said. "They brought them in with the cattle."

Specs' eyes lit up, and not even the glare bouncing off his lenses could hide their gleam.

"Are they feeding us meat, now?"

"Oh, certainly not," Blink laughed. "You wouldn't want to eat these beasts. They're for the shoemakers down the way. We're low on supplies again--need more straps, and all of that."

Specs deflated somewhat. "Perhaps it was the injury? The one young man, uh--what was his name?"

Clack, clack, clack. "I don't want to know his name."

Specs patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Anyway, the one is injured pretty badly. Did a commendable job of keeping the noise, down, though--save for when he grunted like a pig, of course."

"Shot to the hip, yes?" Blink asked absently, still too focused on his typing to pay any close attention.

"Terrible thing, that," Specs nodded. "Dug it out with a pocket knife."

"That is what they are here for, no?"

"Well, not precisely--"

"They didn't engage his friend, either," Blink went on. "He was in perfectly good health. I can't imagine Schneider and Pulitzer letting them through without some sort of conversation."

Specs tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Do you think it has to do with the fact that their--"

The door flew open then, flooding the shack with mid-afternoon sunshine. Both Specs and Blink snapped to attention.

"They won't do it," Ivan moaned, slamming the door behind him, glowering at it.

"Won't do what?" Blink asked, collapsing back onto his chair, clearly annoyed that his work had been interrupted by one so mundane as a junior guard.

"They won't reassign me, don't you understand?" Ivan tossed his unloaded rifle into the corner where the alcohol rested, before flopping dejectedly against the wall. "Fat bastards."

"And a good morning to you, HJ," Specs replied from his place at the desk, settling himself on the stool. Ivan blinked at him for a moment, pale cheeks flushing pink.

"I didn't see you there," Ivan replied shakily, before demanding, "Why are you away from your barracks? You have a job to do."

"Bring it up with the new kids, then," Specs retorted. "They're the ones hogging the band-aids. Besides, I don't remember ever putting in an application for this job."

"Singer!" Ivan scolded, looking vaguely scandalized.

"You're splitting on me, Ivan?" Specs shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. Blink chuckled at him softly. "What'm I gonna do without my favorite Nazi in the whole world there to make sure I get first dibs on the med packs, huh?"

"Shh!" hissed Ivan, glancing over his shoulder worriedly, before crouching down beside the desk. "What if somebody's outside? You have too many privileges, Danny!"

Blink's eyebrow quirked at the mention of the nickname, fingers faltering on the keyboard, striking an uncomfortable "D" through the middle of an otherwise perfect "fraulein."

"Oh, fuck!" he swore, ripping the paper away, crumpling it into a ball. "You two are distracting me, with your lovey-dove name calling! Get out of my office before we are all eliminated."

"That's what they're calling it these days?" Specs chuckled. "Why, that sounds almost honorable."

Ivan squirmed, pale knuckles paler still as he gripped the edges of the desk anxiously.

"So why you running away for, Ives?" asked Specs, tapping the corner of his mouth with one of Blink's fine Swiss-made pens. "Somebody onto you or something?"

Ivan's lower lip protruded almost comically. "They have nothing to be onto me about!"

"You're in my office calling this brute 'Danny,'" Blink pointed out, grinning unpleasantly, cheek muscles straining weirdly against pink, keloid scar tissue. "I'd say you're a dissenter with this behavior."

Both Specs and Ivan flinched at that, watching him worriedly. He went on typing, paying their reaction no mind, pausing only to look over the chicken scratch Schneider laid out for him to comprehend and copy.

"I am no deserter," Ivan replied at length, gathering himself. "I care first and foremost for my country!"

"And Danny, clearly," Blink muttered, attention still on his paper.

"I don't appreciate your implications, Balka!" snapped Ivan, knocking the stool over as he jumped to his feet.

"Implications? What implications?" Blink gently folded the work list and set it atop the pile of completed items.

"I'll hit you if you don't stop this right now!"

"Oh, please do," Blink murmured, thumbing through the completed documents and beginning the next and final document. "I've been trying to get out of here for years, kid.

Every officer in the country wants me. Say the magic words and I'll be at the next camp. Maybe I'll even get to see my family."

Ivan's cheeks went red, the veins in his neck popping as his reserves broke down. "That wasn't my fault, Lew."

"Nobody said it was, Ivan," Specs nodded, thumping him on the chest. "Calm down, kiddo, Blink's pulling your leg." He glanced over at the tabulator warningly. "Isn't that so, Blink?"

Blink smiled brightly. "Yes. Country first. Fellow men second. I know that's how you work." Ping! went the typewriter. "Ah, look. All beautiful spelling! Perfect Deutch."

"Manner has an umlaut." Specs waggled his thick eyebrows.

Blink wrinkled his crooked nose. "Oh, fuck you."

"I'm surprised you understood that," Ivan snapped, before brushing past Specs, slamming the door on the way out.

Blink watched him go, scowling, switching easily to English. "Oh dear. I make him so angry."

"You're a terrible person, Herr Balka," Specs shook his head. "Why do you gotta mess with the kid so?"

"It's easy," Blink smiled. "I see everything in him, everything I dislike. It's too easy."

Specs frowned. "Guess you'd be happy to see him transferred."

"I'd be happy to see their entire race transferred. Preferably to...I don't know. The deserts of Africa. Without water." He laughed. "With mosquitoes." He paused to contemplate, and then smile gleefully. "Mosquitoes to carry malaria!" Specs couldn't help agreeing to some degree.

"I never put in that transfer request," Blink confessed, looking slightly less cheerful. "Couldn't bring myself to."

"Oh, really? That wasn't for me, was it?"

"Well...I know the two of you are...what are you anyway? Not friends."

"No," Specs shook his head adamantly. Then he paused. "Guess we won't ever be."

"Anyway...no." Blink stroked his chin, contemplating, the scars on the back of his hands catching the light, glistening like fleshy cobwebs. "It was those men he brought in. They bothered him, Singer. Terribly so."

"What, Spot and Race?"

Blink gave him an odd look.

"They're nicknames."

"Always with your nicknames. Such odd people, you Americans." he shrugged. "Yes, if they were the two short ones they caught yesterday...yes, they bothered him a lot. I think they were supposed to have died."

"Of course they were. We all were."

"Not like these two. Something Ivan said..." Blink shook his head again, trying to clear it. "Oh, well. Not important, this. But I enjoyed their effect on him. I am cruel, as you say."

"Ivan's a good man, Lew," Specs continued. "No different than me, or any of those men in that warehouse they store us in."

Blink laughed. "You cook people in America?"

Specs blinked at him questioningly, dark eyes wide and confused. "We what? What did you just say?"

Blink shrugged jovially, bouncing on the balls of his feet, manic smile wide and ugly. "I'm rambling."

"You been looking at too many posters, Blink." Specs laughed. "Bake us? Shoot us, maybe. Wouldn't make good pies. We're tough. Don't go down too easily. Get caught in the teeth and all that."

Blink quirked an eyebrow at him, smile fading abruptly, replaced by something dark and frightening Specs didn't want to see. "Are you now? How do you know that?"

Specs swallowed. The string that had been hanging from his pocket came loose. Blink remained silent, tucking the work orders into his jacket pocket.

"You didn't understand that," Specs said softly.

"Which part?"

"Any of it."

Blink stared at him coolly before shrugging and leaving to deliver the work orders to the barracks. He didn't bother with a goodbye--Blink never did.

--

The thin wooden door of the barracks shook as it was pounded on. Spot stirred unhappily and pain shot through his side. He groaned and felt someone next to him shift. A cool hand pressed over his forehead and as the noise outside continued Spot heard Race whisper to him.

"You don't have a fever. Can you move your leg?"

Spot cracked one eye open and looked up at his friend as he leaned over him, mouth drawn downward in a tight frown. Race didn't look as though he'd slept very much. Spot's mouth was dry and sour; he swallowed once or twice and made a face, managing to shake his head once.

Race sighed and sat back. They'd slept on the same bunk, head to foot, as all the other beds had been full by the time Race had gone looking. He hadn't been able to fall asleep at all and so hadn't minded when Spot kicked him in the temple a few times during the night.

"Oy!" A distinctly English voice cut through the pair's conversation and both looked up to see a scowling, curly haired man standing over them. "You two lovebirds better get up or you'll get a boot up both your arses." He lifted a scathing eyebrow at them and turned, shrugging on a jacket, before Spot could croak something demeaning back at him.

"Get up for what?" Race asked of another man as he passed. The barrack was quickly emptying out. The pounding stopped because someone had opened the door, the guard moving on to the next building.

"Roll." The answer was abrupt and the speaker didn't look down at them as he passed. Race sighed and pushed to his feet.

"You're gonna have to get up, Spot."

"I know." The reply was a snap and Race rolled his eyes. He turned on his heel, making as though to leave Spot there to fend for himself. His friend's slightly sheepish voice stopped him and Race got rid of his smile of satisfaction before turning him.

"What?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "You want help or something?"

"Not help," Spot grumbled, having sense enough at least to stare at the floor. 

"Just…assistance."

"It's the same thing, dumbass," Race said as he stepped forward and "assisted" Spot in standing. The injured man wobbled a little, his hand tight on Race's shoulder. He was grim faced and pale as they began the painful process of getting to the door.

"Hast oben!" A gruff voice came from the door and they looked up to see two guards there. Race frowned. They had to be brothers. They looked too similar for there not to be a relation. Dark haired and cruel eyed, the men had their rifles half raised and one was gesturing for them to hurry.

"If he's telling us to speed up," Spot gritted out between clenched teeth, "I might kill him."

"I don't think that would be a very good idea." They reached the door and they could feel the Nazis' eyes on them as they hobbled down the stairs. Squinting against the sun, Race could see where the other men lined up on the barren parade grounds. With a tired sigh he started to heave Spot toward the end of the line. A surprising number of men waited to be counted off and Race had to wonder where they kept them all. The camp wasn't really that big, but he supposed adequate beds weren't an issue that Nazis had much investment in.

"Do you remember your number?" Spot asked. His voice was dry and rough, like sandpaper. Race glanced at him as they came to a painful halt behind the Englishman who'd snapped at them.

"Fuck no," Race said, shifting Spot's arm over his shoulders into a more comfortable position. "Do you?"

"No."

"Well…then I guess we just see what happens."

Spot fell into a resolute silence. Two officers started a quick pace back and forth in front of the ragtag bunch of soldiers, their eyes chillingly cold. It was not a hard task to figure out that the Nazis didn't look on their prisoners as human beings at all. It was almost enough to make Spot wince, but he wasn't going to give them that satisfaction.

It was chilly out, the air cold enough to make the tips of his ears burn, and he couldn't see a living thing in sight. It was March, for chrissake, but everything around them was dead, the earth under their feet hard packed and gray. Not even weeds grew against the fence and beyond the guard posts; the forest that backed the camp was skeletal. Spot swallowed hard. It must've been a tough winter, and from the look of things it would be an equally tough spring.

The Nazi officers—Spot recognized the blond (Ivan, if he remember correctly) who had brought them in, and a swell of hatred heated his gut for a moment—had started to speak and Spot was relieved to hear them shouting out last names, rather than numbers. There was no way he would have been able to remember the number the crabby, one-eyed Polish man had given him. He shot a quick glance to Race; he nodded, smiling weakly. Spot frowned at him; the lack of sleep was wearing on him visibly. Racetrack was downright haggard, and considering he wasn't the one with the hole in his hip, he didn't have any right to be.

Race returned the frown before facing forward again, both to avoid the wrath of the Nazis and Spot's suspicious gaze. Truthfully, he hadn't slept a wink. Spot had managed to drift off, but he had been restless, groaning in pain every time he shifted in his sleep, and Race had been unblinkingly awake for all of it. The color in Spot's cheeks was encouraging, but the infection lingered and he was clearly dehydrated. Race wasn't about to voice these worries out loud, though. He had no desire to be ridiculed, and that's what Spot was best at, especially when mocking was the best way to mask his own worries.

It wasn't long before Spot's name got called. The German accented "CONLON" was almost unrecognizable and it was a second before Spot realized they referred to him.

"Here," he said sullenly, earning himself a painful nudge from Race, but by that time it was too late and Ivan was already stalking over.

"I said CONLON?" he barked again, shoving his nose in Spot's face. The Brooklynite's lip curled.

"And I said _here_," he snapped back.

Race opened his mouth to apologize for his friend's back talk, but the officer shoved Spot to the ground before he could get out the words "Sorry, sir." Spot's cry burned his ears and he could only watch with his heart in his mouth as Ivan advanced on the wounded man.

"You will be addressing us with proper respect," Ivan said harshly, keeping his back straight and his lip curled, a practical poster child for Hitler Jugend conditioning. The toes of his boots grazed the tip of Spot's nose; both men were trembling with rage. "Stand and we will try again, yes?"

"I hope he does, we could all use another good laugh," somebody said down the line, and the entire company stifled chuckles.

"Herr Grey, you would kindly refrain from encouraging the situation!" one of the brunette brothers commanded, grinning despite himself, and everyone went still. "Ivan, standplatz unten, bitte."

Race watched tentatively as Spot forced himself back on his feet, gaze so icy it would've freezer-burned holes right through Ivan's pretty little baby face if it could. Ivan took two steps back, but he did not move down the line. He waited, watching Spot struggle to right himself one straining limb at a time. Race bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, desperate to aide him, knowing full well it wouldn't be the wrath of the Nazi party he'd have to fear if he decided to offer an arm to lean on.

Spot was sweating bullets by the time he was on his feet again, limbs trembling, skin washed out by a sickly green glow. He looked almost as bad as he had in the cattle car. Race tried to catch his gaze sideways, but Spot wouldn't—and probably couldn't—turn the hate he was wearing specially for Ivan on anything else. Great. After enduring such humiliation, Spot would be nothing but bitching and bravado for a good month onward.

This apparently failed to impress Ivan, though. He said in the same mechanical voice he'd been using before knocking Spot to the ground, "Now, we try again. Conlon."

Spot glowered at him for a minute before smiling bitterly, holding a hand out to him. Race couldn't hold in the curse that burst from between his lips.

"Pleased to meet you, Ivan. Call me Spot."

And then there was chaos.

--

Everyone was bloody by the time they were banished to their barracks, breakfast canceled for the time being, one private from Maryland dead and sent to the tabulator for processing. A few of the men were still reeling from the scuttle, complaining adamantly about the lack of food and _Unteroffizier _Morris' temper. Racetrack, however, was still shocked at the utter disorganization the camp was allowing, as well as the inconsistency of the guards' reactions. Why the hell would the Blond Kid Ivan knock Spot onto the ground for an unenthusiastic roll-call confirmation, when his superiors were allowing the Brit to crack jokes?

Spot wasn't the only one in need of patching up when the barrack doors were shut and locked on them, however. One guy, aided by that swaggering Cowboy on his way back from the line, had suffered a rifle butt to the forehead. Another—who Specs had already gotten his hands on—had a cracked rib. The kid who'd given it to him, the one from Maryland, shouldn't have gotten so excited.

"So you're a doc, huh?" the Rifle-Butt Guy said, and Race had to keep batting his cream-and-coffee fingers away from his rapidly swelling wound. "Where you from?"

"Brooklyn," Racetrack replied, wondering if Specs had any aspirin. Gently tilting the guy's chin upward, he stared into his eyes, which were slightly unfocused. Sure enough, his pupils failed to respond to the light, and Race sighed. "You got yourself a pretty little concussion, private. What do they call you?"

"Mush, on account of he doesn't have two brain cells to rub together," Specs piped up from where he was dealing with Ribs Guy.

"Nah, it's because he still wishes he had his teddy bear to sleep with, ain't it, Mush?" 

Cowboy said, giving Mush's shoulder a squeeze. Spot snorted; he was leaning against his bunk, smoking a cigarette. He'd bled through his trousers again. Race quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn't say anything. Mush, however, chuckled.

"My buddies gave it to me as a kid," Mush said, giving a little shrug. "Just sorta stuck, see. I been called Mush so long, it's what I call myself inside my head, even."

"Not joking about that teddy bear, though," Jack said, directing his gaze in Spot's direction. Spot caught it for a moment, held it, and then dropped it, taking another long, slow drag off his cigarette. Race studied him, eyebrows drawing together.

"So where'd you pick up your nick, Racetrack?" Jack asked him, smiling. "Bet there's a story behind that one."

"I suppose it would a bit difficult to figure out, you being an Army man and all," Race said breezily, smiling in return. This time Spot snorted for him. He gave Mush's thigh a pat, crossing the floor to begin digging through the pack Specs had commandeered from him. Sure enough, there was a tiny packet of aspirin at the very bottom, one capsule left.

When he returned to administer the pill to Mush, Jack was leaning against the bunk loosely, hands in his pockets, with a big fat smile plastered on his face. "Yeah, well. I was thinking maybe it was because you're an avid gambler. I don't suppose you're very successful at it, either. Guess I'm wrong though, aren't I?"

Race glanced up at Spot then, narrowing his eyes at him. Spot watched all of it with a smirk, cigarette smoke curling like ribbons between the dry ridges of his lips. He waggled the fingers holding the smoke at him, dribbling ash over the side of his bed. Racetrack's blood heated up a little bit, and he hoped his scowl wasn't as pouty as he feared it was. Stupid Spot. Thank God for the old poker face. "What makes you think I'm unsuccessful?"

Jack smiled, shrugging. "Oh, just a guess. You know us Army guys. Full of crazy, stupid ideas." Something was in that, and Race didn't quite know what, but whatever it was, it caught Spot's attention as well, if the way his ears perked up and his eyes flashed at the statement.

"Maybe he's a jockey," the Brit said, voice drifting out of the corner he'd pressed himself into, holding a cigarette in the same languid fashion as Spot. He, however, was curled up into a tight little ball, hair disheveled, an utter mess where Spot was as stylish grit as ever, even with his weeping leg being devoured by bacteria. The Crumpet? Hadn't even been hit in the fight.

"A jockey?" Jack asked, grinning.

"He's short enough," Skitts replied, grim-faced. Race smirked, but stayed cool.

"Laugh now, men," he said, waving Mush's aspirin in the air where their faces would've been if they were seated at a table together. "Remember who's taking care of you when Little Miss Ivan has her temper tantrums."

"We do, and it's Specs here, not some itey from Bed Sty," somebody Race didn't know said from behind them, and Specs twitched rather uncomfortably, offering Race a sheepish frown and shake of the head. Race was about ready to haul off and hit the guy, whoever he was.

What surprised Race, though, was the sudden change of expression on Jack's face, and the sternness of his tone. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't exactly frowning, either; he was just…commanding. "Hey, shut up, Snipes. Pay this man some respect. You can never have enough medics. We'll all need him some day, same as we've always needed Specs." Race immediately picked up on what Jack was saying, and it shocked him mildly. Not because of the sudden change in tone and mood—no, Jack was some sort of leader, anyway, and Race had to admit, calling him itey was a bit out of line. It was what he was implying that worried him. It apparently worried Specs as well; he was now watching Jack pensively.

"You're one to talk, country boy," Spot said, effectively breaking the mood, bunk creaking conspiratorially as he stood to approach them. He dragged the fingers of his right hand across the barrack wall to hide the fact that he couldn't put any weight on his bad leg. Oh, Spot. "Even if you were right about the compulsive gambling thing."

"I didn't say anything about compulsion," Jack said; smile returning, "but should I have?" So insulting his mental state was well enough—they just couldn't insult his importance. Race supposed that was a reasonable line.

Spot grinned wickedly in Race's direction. Spot, of course, never adhered to these kinds of rules, especially not where Race was concerned. Race bent to place the aspirin in Mush's large, warm hand. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he took the only available space that wasn't he and Spot's bed (the patch of floor next to the Brit's side) and sat, wishing desperately for a nice bottle of old Igor Vladikov's vodka. "Yes, Jack, Spot here's managed to think up a better insult than yours. But it's fine, you know? Even you couldn't fail to grasp just how we came up with Spot's nickname. I bet you'll get plenty to tease him about with that one. Bet you'll even feel clever afterwards."

Jack chuckled at that, the jerk, and couldn't even come up with a retort. Spot, however, seemed to think he had something up his sleeve, because why else would he be watching him with that stupid smile on his face?

"Was it the zits, the height, or…is there something else he's plagued with?" the Brit asked, running dark, chocolaty eyes over the length of Spot's small, wiry, broken body.

"You were supposed to let the Ranger guess that one," Race replied, putting on a look of mock disappointment, crossing his arms over his chest. Maybe the old crumpet-eating cousin wasn't so bad, then. "But yes, he's clearly undersized. I, personally, think it's the feet."

"Small feet, small—"

"If it weren't for that fucking blond baby-faced queer, you two'd be dead as door nails," Spot hissed, hand clutching at the wall so hard his fingers were practically shaving the bark. Jack was grinning at him though, and—Race scowled openly as Spot caught Jack's gaze on his feet, sizing them up.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Prissy," Jack said after a moment, bringing his eyes back up to Spot's. "Don't seem undersized at all. Of course, why would feet have anything to do with anything?" Then he put his gaze back on Race, running a hand through that golden grease pile atop his head. "What do you think, Racetrack?"

Race went red as the Brit cackled beside him, and Race gave his head a shove.

"I think you better watch where you're going with that, Cowboy," Spot said coldly, voice quiet and dangerous. Uh-oh…Spot was pissed now, really pissed, and that was twice in one day. He was going to be hell to sleep with tonight.

Jack, after smirking at both of them for a minute, brightened into a smile. "Well, guess that only leaves Skitts! Skitts, go on and introduce yourself. You've been dishing it out, why don't you let us give it to you for a while?"

"Fuck off, you Yanks, all of you," the Brit said, suddenly going a bit wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. "Besides, you gave me mine, so it's obviously rubbish."

"I think it's perfect," Mush said jovially, still tapping experimental fingertips along the great purple welt spanning the width of his forehead.

"You would, Mush," he snapped.

"Cool it, Chuckles, you can't stand the taste of your own tea, stop serving it," Spot said coldly, and to Race's surprise, he actually lowered himself down on to the floor at his right side, steadying himself by planting a palm on top of Race's head.

"Chuckles?" Jack swung his entire body upward and flung himself unceremoniously into the hammock another guy was reading in, eliciting a minor slew of curses and a good head-whacking with said reading material. "That would've been appropriate, too. Damn, wish we would've caught you sooner, Spot."

"Of course you did, you're all pathetic," Spot spat, but he was smiling. Race sighed and hit the back of his head against the wall a few times.

"So what do they call you, Chuckles?" Race asked, turning his attention away from Spot and his stupid smile and his stupid, radiating wave of suppressed pain and embarrassment from that morning.

"Grey," he spat, "and don't you call me Tea Boy."

"Grey! See, that's far too dignified," Specs said, coming up to swing a bit idly from the already over-burdened hammock. The guy who'd been resting in it made a terminal-sounding grunt, moaning, "Not you, too. You're one of the last sane ones left."

"Doc's right. Grey's boring, kid," Race said, and eyed the Brit's cigarette rather appraisingly. It was hand-rolled. He lusted over it for a few moments. "Chuckles the Tea Boy," Race smiled contemplatively. "There's one you could take home to your mother. 'Mother, this is Chuckles the Tea Boy. Ain't he just dreamy?'"

"Dreamy?" His long face crunched up into the most spectacular, blatant, unintentional pout Race'd ever seen on a person over seven. "What sort of ridiculous word is that?"

"So what's his damn name already?" Spot demanded, reaching out to grab Race's head and give it a good punch in the temple.

Jack was smiling at them again as he said cheerfully, "We call him Skittery."

"You are insufferable and I don't like you," the Brit—Skittery—replied, and crunched into himself further, leaving his cigarette dangling limply over his head.

Race sized him up before nodding his approval. "Yeah. That's a good one. I can't even think up anything insulting to say about it. Don't even need to elaborate."

"Please make this day more terrible than it already is, won't you?" Skittery snapped, but he didn't move from his spot in the corner. "Oh, bugger off and die, the lot of you!" His stomach gave a loud growl then and his scowl softened slightly, melting back into that terrible pout. "Jack, why don't you prove useful for once and sneak us some sausages or something?"

"Better yet, let's have Specs' girlfriend do it," Jack said, giving Specs' back a hard slap. "What do you say, Danny?"

"Girlfriend? They got dames in here?" Spot asked, and if Race had been anybody but who he was, he would've pegged him as sounding hopeful.

Specs laughed. "No. No they don't." Specs scratched his chin a moment. "I guess I could see if Ivan could at least get us a few cans of peaches or something. Of course, he is being rather…testy today." He swiveled his head to take count of the others, and the guy beside Jack seemed much more accommodating now, watching him over the spine of Mein Kampf with interest. "Did you know he wanted to get a transfer?"

Skittery sighed, considering his cigarette. "Oh well. So much for my smoking habit."

"So much for nutrition," that was Specs. 

"Why would he transfer?" Jack voiced, looking intruigued

Spot snarled, "I wish he would've transferred before he decided to shoot me."

"He couldn't have shot you, he's stuck here," Specs said a little defensively.

"What? Then who—"

"They all look the same, they're all ugly fuckers." That was Skitts.

"In Hawaii, they give you bananas," Mush said from a distance, voice wistful. "I'd go for a banana right now."

"Shut up about Hawaii, Mush," Jack said without any real venom. "We don't got bananas here."

"We ought to," Mush replied, and Race was beginning to understand the nickname. Of course, he did have a rather impressive concussion.

Spot gave a sigh beside Race, digging his torn up palms into the deep gullies of his eye sockets. "I'm stuck here with you people for the duration of the war?"

"Or until you die. Whichever comes first," Race reminded him. "Speaking of dying, your leg'll be off if you don't let Specs and I take another look at it."

"That's it," Spot said, pushing Race into Skittery with a hard shove and crawling toward the bed to climb up a post and stand. "Give me a fork, someone. I'm digging out of here." When nobody said anything, Spot groaned. "What? I can't even joke about escaping?"

"No, not now," Jack said, but he didn't sound angry as much as interested. "So you better shut up about it and let Specs try and finagle us some peaches."

"You have no sense of humor," Spot replied dryly, beginning to hobble bed-by-bed back to his own. Skittery gave Race a poke and whispered, "Is your friend always this…this way?"

"He's ridiculous," Race said angrily, getting to his feet. "Example? Dribbling blood all over the place. Come on, Specs. We better look him over again." Specs gave a perfunctory nod and followed.

"I think he's just what this place needs," Jack declared in a way that he might've supposed was purposefully off-hand. 

It was more like a radio announcer imitation gone right, however, and Race was inexplicably thankful when Spot replied, genuinely annoyed, "Don't talk about me like I'm not here, hick. And I don't care what you think, anyway."

--

_Spot Conlon had a thing about pride. Everyone knew that. He was small for an eighteen year old, but it wasn't in anyone's best interest to point this out, because it usually ended in bloody noses and general violence. _

_He was out of school for good and it was the summer of 1940. Neither Spot, nor his current combatant, were thinking about the war that was now smoldering in Europe. The beaches of Dunkirk had been evacuated four days previously, but there were much more important things to worry about. For example, the kid he was currently pummeling had not only implied that Spot was far too small to have just graduated from high school, but he'd said scurrilous things about his mother. _

_Racetrack had stood aside and let it happen, but now he was getting worried. Spot was a master in the art of neighborhood brawls, but this particular scoundrel was putting up quite the fight as Spot pummeled him, although it was mostly noise. He kept _yowling_ and it was going to drive Race crazy if it didn't attract the cops first. After all, it was after dark. They both should have been back at Spot's apartment by now, eating dinner and lying to his parents about what they'd spent all day doing. But Spot was intent and he wasn't letting go. _

"_Spot," he said finally, pulling his hands from his pockets and leaning forward a little, "come on. This is getting old."_

_The two young men shoved apart from each other at his words and froze, both bent forward to glare at each other, chests heaving. Race rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "Did you hear me, Conlon? I'm getting bored and I'm fuckin' hungry. So either finish it, or leave it."_

"_Fuck you," Spot said, without any real venom._

"_I mean it," Race replied, getting annoyed. "I wanna get back to your place and eat."_

_Spot opened his mouth to snap at him again, probably with something just as witty as "fuck you" but his opponent spoke first._

"_He seems real eager to get back to your ma, Conlon. You sure she ain't puttin' it out for _all _your friends?" _

_A resounding "Oooooh" went up from the small crowd that had surrounded them in the past few minutes and Race felt his own anger rising. Gloria Conlon was a mother to him, a better mother than his own would ever be. She'd practically raised him and now this punk was going to disrespect her like that? Suddenly Race understood what it was that went through Spot's head all those times before, so when he threw himself forward, tackling the kid to the ground, he didn't know who was more surprised, the kid, or himself. Spot, however, gave an ecstatic whoop and dived into the fray. It was only a matter of seconds before they'd over powered their foe. Race got his arms locked behind his back while Spot vented his anger. Neither had ever shied away from inflicting real damage and it was no different now. The kid was bleeding heavily from the nose and his eyes were beginning to go out of focus, but Spot didn't look as though he cared much._

_It felt like years, although it was only a matter of seconds, before Race released the kid's arms and he slumped to the ground, groaning unhappily and putting both hands to his head. Spot shot Race a sharp look, but didn't say anything. It was done, he could admit that. He turned away and, while Race was wondering what would happen the day he wasn't around to stop Spot's rampages, realized that the crowd that surrounded them was long gone._

"_Race," he said warily as he turned to look over his friend's shoulder, "We should go." _

_Race glanced back and felt his insides go cold. His feet were already moving before he really registered that three cops were running toward them. His limbs, however, felt as though they were dragging through molasses and he felt panic build in him. The fight had felt like a schoolyard brawl until the police had showed up, now it felt like assault, and Race had blood on his hands, literally. He turned his head, still trapped in the sensation of slow motion, to look at Spot. The blond had also begun to run, but Race could already see the cops out of the corner of his eye, gaining on them._

_There was a sudden yelp and Race felt as though he'd been rocketed out of a cannon. Without slowing down he glanced back. His stomach dropped. One of the cops had nabbed Spot by the back of his shirt and was now attempting to pin the thrashing boy to the ground. He was having just a little bit of difficulty. Race came to a screeching halt and turned on his heel. There was no way he was letting Spot get arrested. They had dinner to get to, and Race did not want to explain this to his mother._

_--_

**Falco's Note:** Happy belated St. Patty's day, everyone. Hilby missed it, so she's out catching up and is in no shape to be giving you guys notes. You will just have to survive._  
_


	5. Chapter Four

Spot was thinking about Brooklyn as he stared out the dirty window. The moon was full and bright enough to cast shadows against the dirt parade ground that the barracks surrounded. The leafless tree limbs were stark and eerie against the dark sky, so stark it was almost hard for him to keep his eyes focused on them. The buildings and fence popped from the background, every curve hardened into sharp angles. He looked out at them and thought about home.

His cigarette burned in the back of his throat and he enjoyed the smoke, relishing the feel of it as it filled his lungs. The unhealthiness of it appealed to him, in a way that most unhealthy things appealed to men like Spot Conlon. He smoked because it was bad for him, fought because it was bad for him, went to war because it was very, very bad for him.

Spot took a long drag off the cigarette before dropping it to the floor and grinding it out. He'd smoked it quickly, not wanting to draw the attention of any passing guards who might have spotted the embers glowing in the window. He was the only one awake in the barracks, it seemed, but he liked it that way. His hip hurt like a son of a bitch, and his head hurt even more because of that stupid Aryan bastard. He wasn't sure he felt bad about starting the riot the other day. A man had died, but none of the other men seemed to blame him for that. He'd over heard a couple men recounting the story, giving their own impressions of how he'd talked back to Ivan, and they'd been laughing. The only person who'd actually been angry with him had been Race, but that definitely hadn't been because some private had gotten killed by one of the Nazi guards.

Spot turned his head and looked across the room to where Race was sprawled in the bunk they had to share. Without Spot in it, the other man was having no trouble sleeping at all. He was snoring gently at that. Spot shook his head, thinking of home again. He wasn't quite sure why Race did all the things that were bad for him, smoking, fighting, gambling. He didn't think it was for the same reasons he did. Maybe that's just what it meant to grow up in Brooklyn. You just tended to be drawn toward things that could end your life rather quickly.

Or maybe they were both just dumbasses. The thought made him snort quietly. He turned back to the window, thinking about lighting up another cigarette, but stopping himself. They would have a very limited supply until the end of this, whenever that was. He sighed heavily, his brief good mood quickly dissipating. This war was beginning to look very long.

The thin fingers of a chilled wind snuck under the cracked frame of the window and tugged at the bared skin of his wrist. Spot shivered, shrugging his jacket over his shoulders a little further, dropping his hands to do up the buttons of the fatigues, but something caught his eye. In the moonlight, it was hard not to see the figure as it darted covertly from shadow to shadow, choosing the longer path around the parade ground, rather than straight across it. Spot frowned and narrowed his eyes for a minute, trying to focus on the quickly moving shape, but just as it was hard to stare at the starkly lit trees, trying to see whoever it was in the dark made his eyes hurt. He blinked quickly before trying again. It was man, unsurprising, and he paused once before a pool of moonlight that was impossible to go around, but dived across. He was so dramatically back lit by the moon that Spot still couldn't see his face, but he had a box under his arm, which explained the odd shape of his torso.

Spot watched in curious amazement as the man walked right under Spot's window without seeing him, passing the barrack and continuing on to next one. He slipped up to the side and knelt next to the steps that led to the door. The way the barracks were designed meant that they were held up about two feet off the ground, which meant the floor boards wouldn't rot as quickly, but vermin found it very easy to chew their way through and into the bunks with the men. The man stuck his head into this space and pushed the box under so the stairs hid it.

Finally, as he stood, wiping his hands on his pants, he turned so the moonlight hit his face and Spot's eyebrows shot up when he recognized the young man who'd called Race an itey after the riot, Snipeshooter. The kid was one of those who'd lied about his age when he'd enlisted, so he couldn't have been older than eighteen, one of those who'd thought fighting the Germans would be all kicking ass and taking names, not sitting on your ass and waiting. He was keeping himself busy, though, Spot thought to himself, amused. He could only guess at what he'd stolen. It looked like he'd come from the direction of the cranky, Polish tabulator's office, but was to steal there? Papers and ink ribbons. Spot snorted again, watching as Snipeshooter crept up the stairs to his barrack and slipped inside.

"Th'hell you doing?" Race's sleepy whisper just barely made it across the room to him and Spot turned to look at his barely awake friend.

"They sure got lax security for a bunch of fascists," he replied thoughtfully. He didn't intend to talk about what he'd seen; it wasn't any of his business, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try and figure out what exactly was going on.

* * *

The sunlight that woke Race was completely unwelcome. He groaned, putting a hand to his head and dragging fingers through his hair; after waking up in the middle of the night it took him a while to fall back asleep. Spot made the vague comment about security before limping across the room and shoving Race over to make room for him on the bunk. He'd fallen asleep in an instant, much to Race's chagrin, and when Race woke, he was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed and lacing his boots. An unlit cigarette hung from between his lips and his brow was furrowed solemnly, as though the boots he glared at had done him some grave injustice.

"They call for roll yet?" Race asked, keeping his hand up to block the sun that was streaming in through the dirty window. He didn't actually know if it was the Nazis shouting for roll that had woken him, or the light.

"Nah," Spot said around the cigarette. Race peered around his side to prod Spot's wound, balancing his weight with one finger dipping under below Spot's waistband, elbow planted in the cot, and the other on Spot's shoulder. He tried not to frown as he brushed his fingers over Spot's sweaty neck; he was running a fever. Spot jumped, shook him off with a scowl, and punched him away playfully.

"You're hot," Race said.

"Down boy," said Skittery, and Spot threw a nearby shoe at him.

Race's feet met the ground with a thud as he stood to stretch; he'd slept with his boots on. The room was slowly filling with sleepy soldiers, yawning and rubbing their eyes; Skittery was staring at the shoe a moment before shrugging and throwing it back at them. Race joined the throng of POWs in their cross-barrack trek, settling at the windowsill to yawn and rub his own eyes. Peering blearily through the glass, he noted that the cloud cover, constant since they dropped into Holland, was nowhere to be seen; the blue of the sky was blinding. In the sunlight, the camp didn't look quite so foreboding. He could see the Germans moving around outside, switching watch and bringing out the huge pot that would hold the prisoners' breakfast. Busy little bees, Race thought sardonically, snorting to himself. Busy little fascist bees.

"Hey," he said suddenly, looking over his shoulder at Spot, "why were you up last night?"

"No reason," Spot said, crossing the room to join him. His leg seemed stiffer than the day before, and his eyes were bruised. Before Race could offer comment, he gestured distractingly toward the window. "Finally some daylight. I was beginning to think they didn't have the stuff in Europe."

"It would explain why everyone is so damn pale," someone said in passing. Both men turned to see Jack Kelly exiting the barrack.

"He's one to talk," Race said resentfully as he and Spot joined the stream of soldiers who were walking out for roll and breakfast. "Looks like Casper the friendly fuckin' ghost."

Spot laughed roughly and took up his place in line. The pair had settled into the routine without any trouble (it wasn't as though they had any choice, really). Life in the camp was painfully monotonous. Roll at seven thirty. Breakfast at eight. Menial chores until lunch and then more menial chores until dinner. Race could see how a man could go insane very quickly in a place like this. When he'd voiced his concern, Skittery assured him that once the weather was turned, the men were put to work in the apple orchards that were the small town's claim to fame. All the able bodied German men were off fighting and dying, so there was no one to tend the apples. According to Skittery it wasn't bad work. He was the only one who'd been in the camp long enough to have actually worked in the orchards.

Race couldn't help noticing that Skittery was the only Brit in the entire camp. He must have been brought in with some of his comrades…the fact that he was alone was very ominous. Race glanced down the line to where Skitts was hording his cigarettes from Mush. He looked careworn. Race sighed, turning his face away. He wasn't very good at forcing down his pity when he actually bothered to feel it.

The few quiet conversations that were going on between the men were quickly silenced as the three usual officers stormed up to the long line. Ivan looked pale and furious, entirely un-intimidating, but his colleagues--Morris and Oscar--were truly menacing. They were both dull faced, ham fisted young men, and one would be hard pressed to find a soldier, American, British or German, who actually liked either one of them. It wasn't that they were Nazis; it was that they were brutal and careless, as quick to bash a man's head in with a rifle butt as they were to look at him. They came to a stop a few feet in front of the men, their guns slung over their shoulders and their hands clasped behind their backs. Race wondered briefly what they had been like as children. Unpleasant, he decided, the kinds of kids who threw stones at stray cats and kicked puppies.

"We have a thief!" Oscar shouted as greeting in thick German English. Ivan was pacing behind them, looking almost as nervous as some of the prisoners. His mouth was pulled in a tight grimace, as though he'd swallowed something nasty. "We have a thief and we are going to know who it is!" Race could actually feel the tension in the line increasing. He had no idea what the Nazi was blathering on about, but clearly someone in the camp did. He glanced over at Spot. His expression was hard.

"There was vodka taken from the stores last night," Oscar barked, while Morris glared threateningly at the younger soldiers.

"_Stolen!_" Ivan echoed in a screech, coming to a stop in front of Specs, as though it was some how his fault. Specs didn't blink.

"The thief will step forward now," Oscar continued, "or the entire camp will pay a price! It will not be fun times!"

Race almost had to snicker at the man's awkward English, but Spot looked so grim that he couldn't. Something was obviously wrong with him, and if something was wrong with Spot, something was wrong with Race too. He waited until all three soldiers were glaring elsewhere before nudging his friend and giving him an expectant look.

Spot met his eyes for what felt like a long moment, but his expression didn't change. He broke away to look down the line, eyes settling on another soldier. Race followed his gaze to where he could just see the tip of Snipeshooter's nose peeking out from behind Jack Kelly's broad shoulders; he'd stepped back as far as he could without getting yelled at, shrinking into himself. Race's stomach dropped. It was obvious who the thief was, then. Oscar must have been numb as a hake not to pick out the kid right off. Snipeshooter was only lucky the officer was too busy yelling about all the things he'd do to the men if the thief didn't step forward to peg him.

That was the thing about Oscar, though: he had a creative mind when it came to punishment, and he always followed through on his threats. He wouldn't just lock the men in their barracks for three days, or put them on half rations. No, that would be too simple. Oscar was a true sadist. He would get a certain look on his face when one of the prisoners gave him an opportunity for punishment. Race could see the men in line getting anxious, probably recalling _the look _as clearly as he did. More and more glances were beginning to be sent in Snipes' direction. Race sighed, shaking his head sadly. It would only be a matter of time before Oscar caught on, or one of the men shoved Snipes forward.

"Sir!" Spot's voice startled him out of his thoughts. Race had to bite down on his tongue to keep his jaw from dropping—the last thing he expected Spot to do was sell the kid out; it just wasn't Spot's style. He did have to admit that Spot would certainly have a few of his earlier incidents erased from the record if he ratted Snipes out. He hung his head, shaking it a little, marveling at what desperate times could do to people.

"Sir," Spot's voice cut through his thoughts again, clear and determined, "it was me sir."

The line, already silent, went quieter still. Race was going to _strangle_ him.

Oscar rushed down the line to grab Spot by the front of his fatigues and haul him up. His face was twisted in a hideous snarl as he gave the man a good shake. "I don't believe you."

Spot shrugged, calm as you like. He didn't make any effort to pull away and met Oscar's attack-dog eyes without trouble. "I snuck out last night and broke into the cranky Polack's hut. I saw the cases of booze when I was in there on the first day." This earned him another nasty shake, although Race would bet Oscar wouldn't know why the short American bothered him so much. Oscar's brain couldn't really process things like Spot's brand of smart-assery. He just knew it was disrespectful.

"Yeah? Then where is the _booze_ hid?" he asked, drawing out the word as though it were the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

Race could actually feel the line holding its breath. His own was caught somewhere between his lungs and his mouth, every inch of him a knotted mess of rage and terror.

Spot didn't notice. He was pointing to the building directly next to the barrack they slept in. "Under the stairs," he said.

Oscar glared at him for another long minute before looking over his shoulder at Morris. "Gehe Blick," he said gruffly. Morris obeyed quickly and Race, along with every other man, turned to watch him crouch next to the stairs and reach under. Not a word was uttered as the crate scraped against the ground. Morris straightened, face morphing into a slow, cruel grin.

Oscar looked back at Spot, who regarded him with the same cool distaste. "Latrinen," he said suddenly.

Race actually felt his heart drop and land with an unpleasant splash in his stomach. They didn't need any translator to know what Spot's punishment would be. He saw Jack Kelly wince out of the corner of his eye and Specs open his mouth as if to protest, but nothing came out. Race couldn't blame him. He shouldn't have to get his head bashed in for speaking in defense of Spot.

Race wasn't so reserved, however. He didn't care about getting his head bashed in by Oscar or Spot or anyone else. He was furious.

"How dare you?" he snapped, stepping out of line to shove a finger under Oscar's nose. "You can't put him on latrine duty, he's injured!"

"Shut _up, _Race," Spot snapped through gritted teeth.

"That's not a bad idea, little man," Ivan said, face gone white. It was the first time he'd spoken since planting himself in front of Specs, and he looked terrified.

"Schließen sie ihren mund, Ivan," Oscar warned, cruel smile faltering.

"I'll tell you what's a bad idea!" Race snapped, and he paid no attention to the way Oscar wrinkled his nose at him. "Putting an injured man in a goddamned porta-potty, that's what. Gangrene, you kraut, ever heard of it?"

The line did not gasp as Morris's fist slammed into the side of Race's cheek; they'd all been expecting it. If he hadn't been on the ground, Race would've wiped the look of disgusted pity off of Jack Kelly's face. Spot was ignoring him completely.

"What a lack of discipline from the new boys," Oscar addressed the entire line, fist still buried in the fabric of Spot's fatigues. "You must teach them manners."

Race spat blood in the dirt, glaring at everyone. Spot's eyes finally flicked over to where he struggled to his feet, and Race was a little surprised to see the pain in his eyes. It was so off-putting that the fear he'd felt earlier quickly replaced his anger.

For a moment it looked as though Spot's resolve would break. "I apologize for this private's insubordinance. It ain't necessary to punish the entire line, sir," he said, attention refocused on the German.

"Perhaps you think about these things before you steal tomorrow, yes?" The Nazi extracted his death grip from Spot's shirt and gave him a nasty smile. The line did not react. "Let this be an example, men! I will let you easy today. All day you will not eat," he said to Spot. "No rations tonight or tomorrow morning. If you steal again, I will shoot you in the head, American ficker." He turned his back on Spot and made to stalk away.

"I think you mean fucker," Spot grumbled under his breath. There was a hitch in Oscar's step, as though he'd heard the back talk, but he didn't stop.

Roll had been forgotten and Spot could see Ivan waiting to escort him to the latrines he was to spend his day cleaning. The men in line were dispersing, although it was clear they were finding it hard to stop staring at him. Spot's lip curled in annoyance and he glared at a couple men who were being particularly obvious; Jack Kelly shook his head at him, looping an arm over Mush's slumped shoulders. They turned quickly and headed away before Spot or Racetrack could tell them off.

Spot could feel Race standing next to him, anger so potent his limbs were trembling, but he didn't really want to face him. He was on the receiving end of a look he'd never wanted to see on Race's face, not even during the worst of their fights. Squaring his shoulders, intending to let Ivan lead him to his fate, but someone called his name behind him.

Ivan was trying to ignore him, anyway. He was the worst Nazi ever.

Spot looked over his shoulder to see Snipeshooter staring at him, looking as though he'd just seen a ghost. Spot lifted an eyebrow at him, prompting him to say what he wanted to, hoping the kid wouldn't ruin the whole thing, but Snipes remained silent, just staring. Spot sighed, his expression softening just a little, and he gave the boy a short nod. As though that were his cue, Snipes turned on his heel and practically ran back to the barracks.

"I'm going to kill you," Race said softly at the junction of Spot's neck and spine, glaring at Ivan across the expanse of Spot's shoulders. "I don't care if you get gangrene, lose both your legs and have to wheel yourself around in a cart for the rest of your life. I'm still going to kill you."

Spot finally faced the other man and shrugged. He didn't wince when he saw Race's misery and shock and terrified concern, but that was only because Spot did _not _wince. "I'll be fine."

"Fuck you," Race said heatedly, nearly cutting Spot off. "Fuck you, Conlon." He turned on his heel, much as Snipes had, but he didn't run. Spot was a bit surprised. It had been a long time since he'd seen Race so angry.

He watched him go until he felt Ivan's oddly iron-like grip on his upper arm, urging him forward toward the latrines. The blond was prattling on about something, but Spot didn't bother to ask what he was talking about. Through all of it, Ivan kept his attention straight ahead of him.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he said, extracting his arm from Ivan's hand. Ivan lapsed into silence, choosing instead to march Spot at a painfully quick pace to the most dangerous place in the camp, if you were a man with a fresh wound.

* * *

It was dark by the time Spot was done "cleaning" the latrines and he was fairly sure he'd never been in so much pain. Of course, he'd thought the same thing the day he'd been shot, so he supposed it was all relative. Relativity, however, did not apply to the latrines' level of foulness. The latrines hadn't been cleaned in years. They were so bad the men avoided them if they could, pissing outside if it wasn't too cold. After about half an hour of cleaning he'd had to find a private corner to throw up in, at which time Racetrack snuck over and replaced the bandage on the man's hip with a clean one. (Spot had threatened to punch him for bothering him.) The whole task was pointless; Spot didn't think they were any cleaner after he'd finished with them. In fact, he didn't think any less than a good firebombing would do the trick.

Nevertheless, he was sort of grateful that Race stuck around to keep him company, and it was a testament to his strong resolve that he managed to survive the smell. Spot wasn't one to feel guilty, but Race was positively ashen the whole time, mumbling about fucking idiots who deserved an infection and gangrene and amputation. Spot contemplated explaining why he'd done it, how Snipeshooter had looked so pathetically young standing in that line as the Nazi officers paced up and down, screaming about how they'd shoot the whole damn lot of them if someone didn't come forward, but Race ought to have understood. Spot had done what he'd done and if Race was going to piss and moan so be it. He hadn't been the one forced to spend a whole day literally scrubbing at other men's shit. He had no right pushing his weight around.

The stars were mocking him, twinkling at him from their place miles above the wretched world. He groaned a little as he limped slowly across the yard. (Had it grown since that morning? Honestly, it probably had. There were no limits to Nazi torture; his generals told him so.) He didn't think he'd ever get the ungodly smell out of his nose and all he could do was pray that his wound had been kept clean. As much as he mocked Race for fussing over it, it was a real danger, and he was grudgingly grateful for Race's mothering. He didn't know why the thought surfaced, but the kid Nazi's face swam into his view at the thought; he'd probably been the one who'd thought up the punishment in the first place, he'd been such a pussy that morning. Spot was gonna guess it had been that bastard's bullet Race had dug out of his hip, too. Spot snarled at the memory. He fucking hated Nazis, especially the really Aryan ones. Hated 'um.

He was passing the dimly lit barracks, grumbling that the lucky assholes scarfing dinner wouldn't even think to sneak him anything after they'd finished, when a tall figure stepped out of the shadows, the tip of his cigarette burning cherry red.

"Those latrines actually clean enough to take a dump in now?"

Spot's lip curled at the voice. It was that goddamn Army Ranger, the cowboy. "Why don't you go give it a try? Don't fall in," he said without stopping. "On second thought? A swim might be refreshing. Might take care of that grease in your hair, too."

"Hey." Jack Kelly stepped forward and Spot froze as a hand fell heavy on his shoulder. His entire body tensed as he readied himself for the fight he was sure was coming. Jack Kelly had an ego, and Spot didn't really do well with other big egos…well, except for Race's, he supposed. "You didn't have to do that."

Spot frowned and turned to squint at Kelly. "Do what?"

"Take the fall." Kelly was grinning at him, which Spot found infuriating. "I know you didn't steal that booze."

"Yeah? So what?"

Kelly shuffled his feet a little bit, smile softening. What a fuckin' girl. "So it was good of you. Snipes is just a kid, too scared to take the hits, you know?"

"Yeah." Spot spent a long minute watching Kelly in the dim light. His face was illuminated slightly every time he inhaled on his cig, the ember flare momentarily bathing his face in its glow. Spot noted the guy's eyes were a soft brown, glinting as though they had a light of their own. Spot snorted.

"Did you tell him to steal that shit? 'Cause it sure as hell wasn't his idea." Spot didn't think he could respect a leader, as Jack clearly was, who sent off boys to do arbitrary, but dangerous, things like steal vodka. It didn't reflect well. Somehow, though, he couldn't see somebody like Jack doing something like that.

"Nah," Jack said after taking a long drag of tobacco. "That ain't my style. Besides, if I really wanted Blink's vodka, I'd just ask Specs to get me some." He paused thoughtfully, staring past Spot as though he weren't there. "You're right, though. Snipes wouldn't 'a snuck out at all unless someone told him to." He nodded, exhaling and striking a surreal figure as the smoke ringed his head, tinged gold by the light from the window. "Yeah. Yeah, we'll take care of that."

Spot didn't bother to squash the funny feeling that twisted his gut as he watched Jack walk away, dropping his cigarette to the dirt and snuffing it out with his toe. He knew Jack would make good on that promise.

* * *

"How can you listen to this all day long?" Blink growled, palming his good eye irritably. He'd have to shell out a hundred marks to replace his stolen wares.

Specs, a terribly (and suspiciously) crestfallen Ivan at his side, looked up from the supply list he was reading over. "Damn good thing you got the stuff back. It says here, Blinky, you already owe 'em about fifty marks as it is. I don't know if Herr Junker will cut you any more slack, anyway." Specs paused thoughtfully. "But still...I wouldn't worry about it; apple season's coming, and then the boys won't worry so much about everything."

"It shouldn't have been taken in the first place," Blink grumbled.

"Why do you want to drink? Our men, they are kind to you. Ich wunsch sie kann verstehen. Wir alle bist nicht so grausam,1" Ivan insisted.

"Not all so cruel? Oh, you're talking about how kind Morris and Oscar are, right?" Specs asked, smiling wryly.

"They are soldiers like you!" spat Ivan, before giving Blink the stink eye. "And I like this song." He turned up the radio with an angry grunt.

"It's a good thing I like you, mały chłopiec," Blink said, ignoring him and focusing his ire on the noisy appliance. Specs caught him though; there was a softness in the statement, and Specs had to wonder at it. Blink'd never really treated Ivan with anything short of grudging acceptance before.

"I'm a grown man," protested Ivan. "Don't call me little boy."

"If by grown you mean you've never shaved before…" Specs trailed off.

"And you, Four-Eyes!" (This was a new word he'd picked up from the midget American.) "That alcohol is not to cure boredom."

"Always helps," Specs said with a smile, and then a fatherly ruffle of Ivan's hair. Ivan's pout was soothed, albeit reluctantly.

"So you've been tricking me now?" Blink grinned. "And here I thought you used it for injuries."

"I do," Specs said. "There's more than one way to treat illness, my friend." With that, Blink rolled his good eye and switched off the radio.

"Hei! Unterbinden es!" Ivan slapped his hand off the dial. "This song makes me cheerful."

"Ach, sein still, klein sauerkraut.2" Specs shoved him and switched to a station playing loud, happy pop. Ivan growled and tried to reach for it again, but Specs blocked him effectively with his arm and a large file folder. "This song makes me cheerful, and look! No political message whatsoever."

"I like the political message," said Ivan dejectedly, although everybody in the room knew he was a sucker for Fraulein Andersen.

"The loving Germany part, or the hating everybody else part?" asked Blink, testing him. Specs watched him.

"All of it," said Ivan doubtfully. He left the radio alone.

"You do not," Specs said carefully, trying to sound as carefree and jovial as possible. Blink's raised brow in his direction was a clear warning.

"Well, I'm supposed to," Ivan said softly, before going red as a beet. "Ach! Nun jetzt aussehen welches you've fertig! Ich hassen Amerikaner!3"

Blink looked like he'd been strangled, but happily so.

"You always insult me in Deutsch," said Specs with a shake of the head, amazed because he'd expected to be shoved or smacked or kicked out or sent to the firing range, not agreed with. "Speak in English, we'll get along like a charm."

"You're his prisoner, you aren't supposed to get along like a charm," snapped Blink with carefully calculated bitterness, but he wasn't typing or tabulating or tapping an angry finger against the desk like he usually did. His body was still.

"I'll speak English the day I move to America!" declared Ivan. In English.

"That will be soon, I hope?" said Blink, and something about the way he said it wasn't right.

Specs smiled almost manically at Ivan. "You should come to America someday, Dutchy. Plenty of Krauts there for you to play with, and you can meet my mama. Makes a mean French fry, my mama."

"I'll never go there! You want me killed," Ivan observed, seemingly horrified. Or perhaps petrified. Nobody could really tell with Ivan.

"I'll kidnap you. Maybe we can make a deal. 'Look, Prez, here's my friend Ivan. He's a Nazi, but he's swell. He doesn't kill people all the time. Let him try meatloaf, it'll do him a world of good.'"

"You—I—Sie werden bekommen mich verhaftete als Verrat!4"

"Treason? What, me asking you to dinner?"

Blink's deadpan observation of "Look, it's von Katte and the Great Freidrich!" stopped their horseplay in its tracks. Both stared at him, uncomprehending, as though he was a strange man who'd suddenly intruded on a private conversation.

"I don't understand you," said Specs, wits collected, waggling a cheeky finger at him.

"Are you being insulting?" asked Ivan, but he seemed to be in a better—or at least more docile—mood than he'd been before. Blink marveled at their trust in him.

"To thine own self be true," Blink recited in pretty English, reminding Specs of the grocers down the street back home.

"Couldn't be an insult, then," said Specs, shrugging. "He didn't say it in Polak."

"I'll throw you out," said Blink. "You are so bothersome."

The door was suddenly flung open without so much as a knock. Ivan was the first to his feet, terrified someone was listening in on their conversation.

"Oh, not you," moaned the midget American. The cowboy was at his side, and the angry Irishman was between them, body a bit limp. His scowl was in full force, however.

Ivan went white as a sheet.

"What's happened?" Specs demanded, jumping to his feet, all business once again.

"Nothing important. Spot here's been sent over to apologize to Blink for stealing," said Jack, smiling down arrogantly on his human accessory.

"Unfortunately for us, the latrines and the hydrogen peroxide did absolutely nothing for anybody present, and we've got him on morphine again," Racetrack said bitterly, words cutting everyone down just a touch.

"Oh, fuck you," Spot snarled, trying to struggle away and failing miserably. Blink shot Specs a look.

"He's doing alright though," said Jack, shrugging for Spot's benefit.

"No thanks to you," Race spat at Ivan, whose white morphed into green, and it was painfully obvious this situation was not covered in his field training exercises.

Das Fuehrer has failed you, Blink observed, and couldn't suppress a bitter smile.

"Don't be so angry, boys," he said, putting his bitterness to rest. He stepped away from his desk and pushed Ivan back against the small room's fireplace. "I am not angry. Perhaps you should've used that vodka on our angry friend before they took it away."

"I didn't need it then and I don't need it now," said Spot, and the command in his voice was enough to freeze Blink where he stood. The cowboy had the charm. The Irish kid had the grit. It was a little scary, and that was saying something. Blink'd been to a Nazi rally, of course. He knew a leader when he saw one. "Sorry I took your fucking vodka."

"Why would you do it?" Ivan asked, voice trembling slightly, trying to retain some kind of footing surrounded by enemies as he was. Nobody noticed the quiet concern flitting across Specs's face.

"My men were thirsty," Spot said plainly, trying to be calm. Sweat beaded on his brow.　Racetrack's expression was somewhere between genuine concern and indignant rage.

"There is water," said Ivan defensively, standing up a bit straighter.

Race laughed in his face.

"You're about the most pathetic solder I ever seen," Race spat. Ivan didn't even bother to hide the way his chin drooped to rest on his collar bones. "I bet you put him in the latrines. And after you shot him!"

Ivan's head snapped up again. "It is my duty, Amerikaner!"

"To _torture _people?"

"Race, shut the fuck up!" Spot spat as Jack snickered at all of them.

"Are you people satisfied now?" Race demanded, eyeballing Spot and dropping his voice to a dull roar.

Ivan did not respond. He'd gone oddly blank.

"You are belligerent," said Blink. "I don't like that." His smile, of course, said otherwise.

"He's got a fever, Specs," said Jack after an apologetic look for Blink. "Would you mind taking a look at him?"

Spot seethed.

Ivan scowled. "You have one. You don't need two." He was referring to Racetrack.

"You say you are so kind? Trust them to steal your plaything for a moment, little boy," said Blink in cooing German. Everyone in the room understood, however—any good American soldier knew the Deutsch slang for "boyfriend." Nobody could bring themselves to say anything biting when Ivan's fist cut across the tabulator's face.

* * *

After the confrontation with Ivan, Racetrack was automatically put on punishment duty, confined to the mess to wash dishes. Blink hadn't said anything after being punched, though he did point to the door rather insistently. Ivan was still furious, but Spot wasn't stupid. Specs was around. The kid was always better when Specs was around. Racetrack would've been stuck in the latrine too if it weren't for Specs' presence.

Spot forced Jack to leave him alone and to go get dinner while the country still had dinner to serve. Jack protested, but after the murderous expression Spot caught Racetrack directing at him, he'd shoved Jack away to make it back to the tent alone. Specs, however, he could not shake off, though he seemed more interested in getting far away from the tabulating office than providing a human crutch for Spot. Spot was grateful for that until he'd gone about thirty feet on his own.

The fever would break; he'd been running low-grade fevers on and off since the cattle car. Specs and Race didn't need to know that, though he suspected Race already did as they shared a bunk and all. Specs didn't seem all that worried either, but Racetrack was so spooked by the latrine duty that his wishes could not be tossed aside.

Specs patted the bunk they tried to keep clean for examination purposes, entreating Spot to drop his trousers. When he did, he wasn't shocked to find blood leaking through his bandages again; Race'd been adamant about cleaning out the wound, which meant tearing away his scabs, draining him, and broiling him with antibiotics. (Or something like that.)

Specs hummed disapprovingly. "You're not letting Higgins help you, are you?"

"I let him do what he wants," Spot replied coolly, trying not to wince as Specs applied another sweep of topical antibiotic to his skin and pressed down on the wound with a gauze pad.

"Unless it involves giving you any say in the matter," Specs said with a wry smile. "I don't see you staying off your feet."

"I don't see our guards giving me a choice," Spot snarled.

"You have the choice. You should be with the Russians at the medical compound." Spot scowled darkly. "Well, if not them, I could at least put in a word with Ivan about getting you taken off the duty roster for a while. There are international laws about the way prisoners are treated, Spot."

"And clearly, Morris and Oscar are the portrait of upstanding international citizens."

Specs finished wrapping the leg with a snort, standing back to observe his work. His laughter was quickly replaced with a round of critical lip-biting. "You are too thin, Conlon."

"You're one to talk, Groucho," Spot replied, settling into the cot. His limbs were liquid, and all he wanted was to take a nap. He dashed his knuckles across his forehead, shivering in spite of himself.

"Groucho? I wish I was that funny."

"Funny-looking? You got that."

"Not me. I don't have that moustache," Specs said, giving Spot's knee a little tap. Spot's toes jumped a little; Specs gave a satisfied nod.

"Eyebrows," Spot pointed out in a grumble.

After shrugging his acquiescence, Specs taped off Spot's new bandage. "I don't like that fever," Specs said, packing up his things in the kit that belonged to Racetrack. An unreasonable surge of protectiveness washed over Spot at the sight of it, and he wondered if Racetrack would be finished with the dishes soon.

"I don't like anything here," Spot said without thinking, and then decided it wasn't worth it to cover it up with machismo. He was too damn tired.

Specs watched him for a little while longer before leaving a tablet of aspirin beside his head. "I only have five of these right now, but if you need it, you should use it. Got it?"

Spot eyed the thing through his eyelids and shrugged. "I'll be fine."

Specs sighed, shaking his head, turning for the door. "Want anything?"

Spot considered it for a moment; his stomach was growling, but Specs digging around in his muscle again sort of killed his appetite. "No." He echoed Specs's sigh. "I dunno. Water. Some of that vodka from last night." He chuckled bitterly.

"Oh, sure, I'll go ask Morris for it right now." Specs had propped open the door; he now let it snick shut, turning back to face Spot. "You know, that was amazing what you did this morning, Spot."

Spot fought down the urge to roll his eyes. Of course he'd done it. You did that for people young and stupid as Snipeshooter. "Yeah, well, I'm a regular Jesus Christ, Groucho."

Something flitted across Specs's face that Spot couldn't read, but he shrugged it off. "Okay. Take your aspirin."

Spot waved him off, blocking out the dim, military-standard light with the crook of his arm. He waited until Specs shut the door again to relax, sinking bonelessly into the uncomfortable cot. He'd never been so exhausted in his life.

He attributed the bitterness over Racetrack's bag to that, and wondered again how long he'd be stuck doing the dishes.

* * *

Race shuffled back from the mess in a mood more foul than he'd ever experienced in his life. The "cook," a sickly man named Jan, spoke no English and kept making rude hand gestures at Racetrack when he failed to understand his Swedish.

It hadn't helped that Jack Kelly kept watching him with that stupid look on his face, like he'd _won _something, or was about to. He didn't know what cream the idiot thought he'd gotten, but Race was about ready to do some creaming himself. He really, _really _needed to hit something. It didn't help that he'd been forbidden rations until the next day's dinner, and he was forbidden from joining in the barrack's nightly exercise regimen. It might've been little more than a few hundred jumping jacks and crunches, but it was as close to actual physical violence he'd be allowed without potentially dire consequence in what looked to be a long, long time.

At least the bitchy blond idiot let him leave the mess when he'd broken the cook's glass meat thermometer all over the place.

Specs was just leaving the barrack as Race slunk up to the door. He was pale and looked tired; Race's old pack was slung over his hip. He regarded Race a little defensively before dissolving into a slouch.

"What?" Race demanded, catching the weariness in the medic's dark eyes.

"He's a pistol," Specs muttered, pushing his hair back. He'd been sweating. It was all of fifty degrees outside, probably less.

"What'd he do?" Race asked, and wondered if he ought to offer up one of the few cigs he had left. The guy could obviously use it.

"Just get him to take the aspirin," Specs said. "That fever isn't letting up."

Race's heart gave a leap, and he slapped on the old poker face to hide his apprehension. "Gee. Is it an infection?"

"Not that I can tell," Specs said. "Maybe a cold, maybe a touch of malnutrition. Has he been eating?"

_No, the asshole, _Race almost roared, but he just shrugged instead. "When he doesn't feel like blowing chunks, mostly."

"Which is when?"

"Not often," Race said, unbidden malice seeping into the statement.

The veins in Specs's neck and forehead seemed to swell a little, muscles tensing. "He needs rest, Racetrack. You checked his pulse lately?"

_Whenever he lets me, the dipshit. _"Yeah. It's stressful 'round here."

"Listen, Tony," Specs settled an unwelcome hand on Race's shoulder. "He's going to kill himself at this rate. Convince him to take a break, would you?"

"He's—" Race would've laughed at the double-take he did, had he seen it. "What?"

Specs was saying something else, but an artificial ringing ruined Race's hearing, forcing his focus inward. Kill himself? Spot couldn't do that. He was insurmountable. He was indestructible. He was the toughest motherfucker on the docks. He'd never kill himself.

…Race would do it for him.

Specs was forgotten completely as Race threw open the barracks door, fully prepared to rip Spot limb from limb until he started listening to his poor, broken body. The barracks were freezing, the lights dim, walls smelling of mildew. Spot was strewn listlessly over the medical cot, one arm flung over the edge of the bed, the other shielding his eyes. His breaths were measured, each a swell and dip of a ribcage that should have been layered thick with post-Toccoa muscle. His lower half was naked gooseflesh; boxers that pooled at the junction of his narrow thighs and pelvis provided poor preservation of his modesty. He was a thin slip of shadow and light, and without the fire in his eyes, he looked like a skinny, tired little boy. A rippling shiver stood all of Race's hair on end, and he was terrified again, like he'd been that morning.

"What the hell were you thinking? How could you do something so _stupid_?" he said hotly for what had to be the hundredth time that day, voice echoing weirdly off the empty walls.

Spot started, hand flying from his face to his chest, clutching the breast pocket of his shirt. Every muscle in his body undulated in an angry cascade, and he let out a sharp cry as his hip issued protest. Cursing breathlessly, doubling over in agony, he tried to regain his composure but failed. Race was at his side in a moment, gripping his arms and steadying him before he could do anything else to himself, gently pushing his tailbone back onto the cot.

They sat like that a moment, Spot slumped slightly over Race's shoulder, Race's hands clutching at the insubstantial but firm swell of his biceps, Spot's rapid heartbeat resonating through Race's chest.

"Are you okay?" Racetrack murmured into the curve of Spot's hot, damp neck. Spot shuddered, and it was as though he was stuck where he stood, Spot's knees around his waist.

"I'm always okay," Spot replied, voice hoarse, breath hot against Race's skin. He did not move.

Race drooped against him, and it was the closest he'd come to hugging a man in his life.

"You want to die, Spot? Is that what this is? Some not really all that clever attempt at committing suicide?"

Spot's shoulders sagged further, coming to rest against Racetrack's and staying there, Spot's hair tickling Race's nose.

"What're you talking about?" he asked, sighing. Racetrack smelled like cheap mineral soap.

"Why do you _do _these things to yourself?" Spot said nothing, didn't say a word, didn't move a muscle. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Race pressed quietly, and the heat radiating off of Spot's skin was intoxicating and comforting against the cold and terrifying all at once.

"I'd like to know the same thing," Spot said, voice husky, but still somehow harsh.

Race's wits came back in a slow trickle and he pulled away with a shake of his head. Spot seemed steady enough now, weight supported with his stick arms. Race took a step back and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You're a stupid fucking careless asshole, Spot."

Spot cocked both eyebrows at him. "Tell me something I don't know." He leaned back onto his elbow, fighting down the urge to rub his temples.

Racetrack stared at his best childhood friend like he'd never seen him before—he'd certainly never seen him like this, anyway. Spot stared right back, trying to figure out what was wrong, but Racetrack didn't say anything else, and his expression, though clearly perplexed, wasn't letting anything else on. He hated it when Racetrack turned his poker face on him, but he didn't have the energy to make anything of it.

"What?" he finally settled on, shifting uncomfortably.

Racetrack picked up the aspirin laying next to Spot's thigh and threw it at his face. "Take this, dumbass."

Spot grunted in annoyance. "I don't need it."

"You need it!" Race snapped, picking up a nearby picture frame and making to throw it across the room. He steadied himself before he could though, drawing in a deep breath and scowling at the blond woman and baby staring vacantly at him before dropping it back onto the bed it'd come from.

Spot's smirk was forced; tight. "Jesus, Racetrack. Calm down."

"I wouldn't have to calm down if you didn't do these things to me!" Race snapped, throwing himself onto their usual cot.

"I did what was right," Spot snapped.

"What, putting yourself in a situation where you could've—" Race faultered. "Where you could—Damnit, Spot!" Race's fists connected hard with the sloppy, threadbare cot mattress and the whole bunk shook with the effort. "Stop trying to leave me alone here with nobody else in the whole goddamned world!"

Spot stilled at that, flicking his attention between the tiny pill resting in the center of his hand and Race's intense, furious sneer.

"Race," he began, voice uncharacteristically soft. What was wrong with him, anyway? Racetrack grunted at him, taking a few angry swipes at his mattress under the pretense that he was making it more comfortable. The words Spot might have said dried out in his mouth, and he replied, "Fine. Fine. I'll take the damned aspirin. You don't have to guilt me into it."

"I don't, do I?" Race snapped, rolling onto his side and giving the wall a good kick. The entire structure seemed to shake.

"No," Spot said wryly, watching dust leak from the ceiling slats, "you don't." He threw the pill against the back of his throat and swallowed it dry. "There. Happy?"

Racetrack didn't reply. By the time Spot decided he'd just make him talk, their fellow barracks members were already trickling back into their quarters, and at that point, Race was dried up anyhow. He wouldn't talk being in the state that he was, and to be honest, Spot wasn't sure he wanted to hear what he had to say anyway. Racetrack let him climb into their cot, but he made no pretense of being any less angry.

* * *

When Spot woke up in the middle of the night, leg throbbing where he'd turned onto it, he found Racetrack twitching in the midst of a nightmare, contorted face and fists buried in the thin fabric of Spot's undershirt.

* * *

1 I wish you understood. We're not all so cruel.

2 Oh, be quiet, little sauerkraut.

3 Oh, now look what you've done! I hate Americans.

4 I'm gonna be arrested for treason!

* * *

**Notes:**

**Hilby:** Yeah, so, this chapter was done like weeks ago. But I'm a flake and didn't send it back to my wonderful, beautiful co-author until now. Yeah. So don't give her any crap about the delay, or I'll sic Pissy!Blink on you. Also: DUDE! THANKS FOR READING!!

**Falco:** Yeah. It's all her fault. Cue rock throwing.

**Hilby: **Oh! But before you do, anybody who understands Blink's reference to Frederick the Great and Hans von Katte gets...well, at least my admiration. ;D


End file.
